Free Code Triage by Candace Calvert

bump them in the head when they passed by. Because it belonged over a table, and there wasn’t one.
    Leigh said she’d know the right table when she saw it, asked him over and over what the rush was. They weren’t formal people, and their few guests always stood in the kitchen to watch Nick cook; their schedules were hectic and they rarely had time to linger at the table; they had the breakfast bar. They’d find a table . . . in time.
    He was nearly thirty-nine years old. And time had run out.
    He picked up his packing box and stood, looking down at the dying lemon tree. If he took it, rescued it, he was sure Leigh would consider it an accusation. That Nick didn’t trust her with a plant. Criticism . . . from a man who couldn’t be trusted to keep his marriage vows. Best to avoid that ugly irony. And best to finally try to accept the truth. It never was about choosing a table. Leigh regretted choosing him.
    +++
    “For coffee then? After your basketball game?” Sam leaned against the kitchen counter and watched Elisa play with LEGOs on the floor near the dining room table. A small, round oak table prepared for three, with flowers, the new set of brightly colored stoneware, and a plastic booster seat. Her brother’s table, now hers. And maybe someday . . .
    “Thanks, but I can’t,” Nick said, his voice breathless. In the background there was the echoing thump of balls dribbled against a hardwood floor—the SFPD youth program. “I said I’d help one of the boys with his math, and . . . I can’t.”
    Because you haven’t accepted the fact that you need me. But you will. Sam traced a finger across the folded San Francisco Chronicle she’d placed on the breakfast bar beside the bottle of merlot and two glasses. “Sure,” she said, keeping her tone casual, “I understand. I’m not trying to put pressure on you. It’s just that Elisa made you something. Macaroni pasted onto paper. It’s supposed to be a butterfly. She used to give all her art projects to Toby, and . . . she misses you.”
    There was an awkward silence punctuated by distant thumping and boyish shouts.
    “Nick?”
    “After I left the hospital today . . .” His voice suddenly sounded less like he was breathless from playing hoops and more like he was choking. She knew why. “Did you talk with Leigh?”
    She pressed her lips together and glanced toward the dining room table. She’d never see him sitting there until he gave up on his marriage. And giving up wasn’t something Nick Stathos did well; but then neither did she. “Yes,” she answered lightly, as if meeting his wife was as benign as sitting with Kristi Johnson and her little daughter. “Though it turned out I was able to get most of the information I needed from the hospital charts.”
    “How did she react?” The basketballs thumped like a spray of bullets.
    “React?”
    “You know,” he said, rare impatience creeping into his voice, “to meeting you. C’mon, Sam. You know what I’m asking.”
    She exhaled slowly. “Like a professional. Nothing other than that. We talked about the case; I let her know I’d be around . . . the hospital, I mean. It was businesslike and basically cordial. Nothing more, nothing less.” She traced her finger down the bottle of wine and measured her words carefully. “It’s obvious that she’s moved on, Nick.”
    She couldn’t hear him breathing, and for a minute she thought he’d disconnected.
    “I’d better get back in the game.”
    “Right. We’ll keep the macaroni butterfly for next time.”
    She disconnected from the call before he could tell her that there wouldn’t be a next time. She uncorked the wine and poured herself a glass. Then reminded herself that Leigh Stathos had made things clear all along. She wanted the marriage over with. She’d insisted on a separation long before the tragedy of Toby’s death brought Nick . . . here to me, for those few precious days.
    If Leigh had wanted Nick, she’d have