The Wife He Forgot Was The One He Loved Most Chapter 10
The drive back to Ashwood was quiet.
Ethan drove. I sat in the passenger seat. The heat was cranked high, and I got drowsy against the headrest.
“Sleep a while,” he said. “I’ll wake you when we’re there.”
I closed my eyes and drifted off, I don’t know for how long. When I woke, the car was parked at the front of the house. He hadn’t woken me. Hadn’t gotten out either. Engine off, leaning back in the driver’s seat, head tilted, watching me.
The interior lights were off; streetlight spilled in through the side window and fell across half his face, softening the line of his jaw.
“You’re up?” His voice was low.
“Why didn’t you wake me?”
“You were sleeping well.” He paused. “Pregnant women need more sleep.”
I rubbed my eyes and reached for the seatbelt. He caught my hand.
“Anna.”
“Yeah?”
“I was going through the journal today. Middle page.”
“July 2017. Your birthday. I dropped you off downstairs and you stood at the door for a long time and asked—”
His throat worked.
“You asked me whether I would regret it.”
“I said no.”
“And then you laughed and said, I believe you.”
“There’s a water stain on that page.” He looked at me. “I think it was—”
“From me crying,” I said.
He turned to look at me.
“That night after I got back inside, I hid under the blanket and cried until morning.” I smiled a little. “Because no one had ever said something to me with that much certainty. You were the first.”
Ethan looked at me. Something surged under the surface of his eyes. His throat worked once, twice.
“Anna.”
The way he said my name—the little rise at the end—was exactly the way he used to say it before.
“I might not have remembered everything yet. But I’m trying.”
“There was one thing you said. I wrote it down on the last page of the journal.”
“What thing?”
He turned to face me. The streetlight caught in his eyes and shattered into a small warm gold.
“You said—’Ethan, if you ever lose me, I’ll be really sad. Not angry with you. Just sad.'”
Heat welled up in my eyes.
That was the second year of our marriage. He’d been out of town on business for a solid month, and one night, two drinks in, I’d sent him a voice memo. I’d assumed he’d forgotten.
He’d written it down.
“So,” he reached out, thumb catching the tear sliding down my face, “I didn’t lose you. Right?”
I nodded, crying.
“You didn’t.”
“Then let’s go home.” He pushed his door open, came around, opened mine, and held out a hand. His grip was steady, palm warm and dry.
I stood on the doorstep and looked back at him.
“Are you still leaving tonight?”
He paused.
“Do you want me to?”
I didn’t answer. I pushed the door open and glanced back at him.
He stood there under the streetlamp, and slowly the corners of his mouth turned up.
“All right. I’ll stay.”