The wife I forgot to love novel CHAPTER ONE — The Night He Stopped Making Coffee

Helena heard his key in the door at seven forty-three.

She didn’t check the time on purpose. She just knew because the chicken had been resting for exactly thirteen minutes and Damian was never home before the thirteen minute mark. Not anymore.

She called out from the kitchen. “Dinner’s ready.”

No answer.

She heard him drop his keys on the table by the door. Heard the particular silence of a man doing something with his phone before he did anything else.

She plated the food.

He appeared in the kitchen doorway still in his coat, phone in hand, eyes finishing a message before they found her. “Hey.”

“Hey yourself.” She nodded at his plate. “Sit. It’s going to get cold.”

“Two seconds.” He typed something. Set the phone face down on the counter and finally took off his coat. Came to the table and sat across from her.

Helena looked at her husband. At the jaw she knew and the eyes that were present now but had been somewhere else four seconds ago. She picked up her fork.

“Long day?” she asked.

“Always.” He tried the chicken. Chewed slowly. Something in his expression settled. “This is really good, Hels.”

“Rosemary. You said last week the lemon version was too sharp.”

“I did say that.” He looked at her then. Actually looked at her. “You remembered.”

“I remember everything you say about my cooking.” She smiled. “It’s the only feedback I reliably get.”

He laughed. A real one. The kind that reached his eyes and made him look like the man she married. “That’s fair. I’m a bad reviewer.”

“The worst.” She pointed her fork at him. “Zero stars. Would not recommend.”

“I’m eating it though.”

“You’re eating it because you’re hungry and it smells good. That’s survival not a compliment.”

He was still smiling. “Fine. It’s incredible. Best chicken in Velmont. Best chicken in the world. Write that down.”

“I’m writing it down.” She wasn’t writing anything down. She was just looking at him, looking at her, thinking that this was what she loved most. Not the grand moments. Just this. Just him at her table laughing at nothing.

His phone lit up face down on the counter.

Not a sound. Just the screen throwing light at the ceiling for three seconds then going dark.

Damian’s eyes went to it. Fast. Involuntary. Then back to his plate.

“You can check it,” Helena said.

“It’s fine.”

“Damian.”

“It’s fine, Helena.” His voice was still easy but the laugh was gone. He cut another piece of chicken. “Tell me about your day.”

She told him. She watched him listen with most of his attention and give the rest of it to the phone sitting six feet away. She talked about the Morrison account and he nodded in the right places. She mentioned Cassidy’s Sunday dinner invitation and he said sure, sounds good, without asking what time or what to bring.

When she got up to clear the plates he was already reaching for his phone.

She ran the water in the sink and didn’t look back.

“I have to make a call,” he said behind her. “Work thing. I’ll be quick.”

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