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The things she did to support her kids, Anne thought dryly. She’d rather stick a pen in her eye than talk to Mark, yet here she was, hidden behind sunglasses and a hat, as if a flimsy disguise could prevent her husband from recognizing her.
Still, the sunglasses came with an added bonus. Instead of watching the dugout where her daughter was getting ready to bat, Anne’s eyes flicked over to Mark. He stood against the fence, clapping and whistling. Gretchen turned a toothy grin toward her father, then gave a gigantic wave in his direction. She didn’t bat an eye at her mother.
Anne’s heart clutched. She’d imagined these days for years. Bright, hopeful years where she’d looked forward to having a family of her own. She’d longed to watch lovingly as her husband leaned over the fence at a softball game to cheer on his daughter. Pecked her forehead when she scored a home run. Stuck a Band-Aid on her knee when she fell.
Now here she was, complete with the kids and the husband, but it was all wrong.
Anne managed to dodge Mark’s gaze as the game finished. As soon as the teams wrapped up their mandatory handshakes, Gretchen sprinted over.
“Mom, please, please, please can Erica take me out to get ice cream? Both her mom and dad are going, and Violet is, too. Pretty please? They said they can drop me off afterward.”
Anne looked up to find Erica’s parents. However, instead of locking eyes with Erica’s mother, she got swept into a stare-down with Mark. Anne held his gaze for a long moment, her confidence fortified only by the fact that he couldn’t see her eyes behind the shades.
She felt Mark’s gaze following her as she broke eye contact with him. Anne dragged herself across the field to make plans with Erica’s family and was rewarded with yips from three young girls when it was all said and done. Gretchen barely remembered to wave goodbye to her mother before racing off with her friends.
After bidding Erica’s family goodbye, Anne spun around on impulse. She no longer sensed Mark’s gaze on her. For some reason, that bothered her more than if he’d been watching.
Guilt wormed its way through her stomach. Was it possible she’d been too harsh on him and had finally pushed him away? For how hard she’d fought to keep their family together, in the end, she’d given up. She felt uneasy thinking of herself as a quitter, but what other choice did she have when all the evidence was stacked against Mark?
Still, she found herself moving toward her husband’s car, briskly at first, then at a jog as she saw him sliding into the driver’s seat. She was breathless by the time she reached his window, and she didn’t know exactly why.
She raised a hand, knocked.
Mark rolled the window down, a reluctant question in his eyes. “Anne?”
Anne pushed her sunglasses onto her head as if that would reveal her true identity. “I’m ready to talk,” she said finally. “Can we go somewhere private?”
_______________________________
Mark led the way to a small rental home he’d booked when Anne had asked him to leave. She’d been out front several times to drop off or pick up the kids, but she’d never stepped foot inside.
Her husband led the way, moving silently. Anne felt as if they were strangers navigating a somewhat awkward but not entirely horrible first date.
She kicked off her shoes in the entryway and studied the small space. It was neat, sparse. Mark had kept it clean. The only signs of someone living in the space were a single dish, a single glass, a single spoon, a single bowl on a drying rack. The very singleness of it all broke Anne’s heart.
Mark grabbed two bottles of water and led the way to the back patio. Two chairs were perched around a card table. He plopped the waters down, then waited until Anne took a seat before easing into the one opposite her.
They sat in silence, sipping their waters, for a long minute.
“Do you have something stronger?” Anne muttered.
Mark sucked on his lower lip. “Are you sure…”
He trailed off. Looked into Anne’s eyes.
“I’m fine,” she whispered. “I promise.”
Mark disappeared into the kitchen and returned carrying two beers. With a wry smile, he popped the tops off both, then leaned his bottle toward Anne’s. They clinked, the chirpy sound chiming across the sunny afternoon like a bell choir at a funeral.
“To what am I cheering?” Mark asked. “Besides you speaking to me?”
Anne couldn’t hide a small smile. That was the problem with talking to Mark. It was too easy to like him, to love him. They were so familiar with each other that even something as simple as sitting on the deck with a couple of beers took Anne back to better days. Days she wanted to reclaim. Oh, how she longed for them.
“He’s dead,” Anne said finally. “And I want to know the truth.”
“Excuse me?”
“Roman Tate is dead,” Anne repeated. “And I want the truth.”
