Free Learning to Stay by Erin Celello Page B

pajama pants and an old T-shirt, then climb into bed. And right before I turn out the light, I look up to see a woman staring back at me from the mirror above the dresser. Her hair is stringy and unkempt, her eyes red-rimmed.
Who are you?
I almost say the words out loud, though I know the answer: She is someone who is more than willing to pick up what has been broken.

Eight

    In the hazy span between night and dawn, when the air is gray and the world outside is fully silent, I feel Brad crawl into bed next to me. I jump at his touch and then stiffen. Even before he speaks, I can smell his breath, sharp with the vapor of alcohol.
    “I’m so glad you’re home,” he whispers into my neck. “I missed you.”
    I turn so I can see him. His eyes droop with lack of sleep and too much Jack. His face is puffy and unshaven.
    “You missed me?”
    He nuzzles into me. “Hmmm, yeah. Good trip?”
    Does he not remember? Any of it?
    “Brad,” I say, choosing my words carefully, “I got home last night, remember?”
    My heart is thudding in my chest, like an animal trying to escape its cage. Boom. Boom. Boom. I search his face for some flicker of recognition. Nothing registers.
    “Sorry I was gone,” he says. “I’ll make it up to you tonight. Dinner out somewhere.” And then his eyes close and almost instantly, he’s snoring.
    •  •  •
    I dig my running clothes out from the bottom of the drawer, dress, and then carry my shoes to the living room to lace up. I can’t remember the last time I ran. It was pre–Early, Janssen, and Bradenton, for sure. But it’s too early to call Darcy, and I need to clear my head, or at least try.
    I churn my legs, feeling the sweet burn in my thighs and my lungs that forces me to think of little else than this: one-two, one-two. Breathe in; breathe out. I run through campus, up State Street, and around the Capitol. I make a brief stop at work to get a drink of water and, because being warm feels good and I am willing to do anything that feels good right now, to avoid thinking about last night, I let myself into my office. I press the power button on my computer and while it’s booting up, I stretch. I sift through my e-mail, triaging which messages I can answer quickly now and marking those that can wait for a more thorough response on Monday.
    By the time I finish, it’s close to noon and I’m famished. I choose a quicker, more direct route home. And with every step, a sense of dread grows in me like mold. How could Brad not remember last night? Was he that drunk? Will he even remember his promise to take me out tonight?
    But when I return, there’s a note on the snack bar:
    Be back later. Dinner tonight, okay? I love you. —B.
    I shower and then pull out my laptop to finish writing up a few memos and do a little research. At three o’clock, I finish all the work I can do without going back to the office for some files I need. My need—or desire—to talk to Darcy about what happened last night has disappeared. Brad had too much to drink, I’ve decided. I’ll talk to him about it. Tonight.
    But what do I do with myself now? I could clean the house, or just my closet. I could go shopping, though I hate shopping. None of those options sounds appealing.
    I can’t remember the last time I had my hair cut, though. I decide on this. And on the way home, I will buy new nail polish, eye shadow, and lip gloss in shades brighter than I might normally choose.
    Why am I making such a big deal over this dinner? We’ll likely end up at the brewpub near the square or the Indian restaurant just down from it, and neither requires fancy attire.
    There hasn’t often been a time in our shared history when money hasn’t been tight—a trend that’s continued. We bought our house, knowing that it needed some work, and anticipating that Brad would have gainful employment long before now, but our house seems bent on ambushing us. First the hot water heater went and then the washing machine, and