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“Maybe.”

Her mouth tightens.

“That does not make what you did all right.”

“I didn’t say it did.”

“No.”

She picks up her bag.

“You let me work on your shoulder and hid your hand from me. You let me stand beside you and talk about next season without telling me what you already knew. Then Tova told you no, and you decided the result mattered more.”

“I thought I was helping.”

“I know.”

“Guess we mean different things by that word,” I say.

“Yes.”

She holds my eyes.

“You are not married to me. You are managing me.”

“That isn’t what I think I’m doing.”

“What do you think you are doing?”

I open my mouth. Nothing comes out.

There are answers. Providing, protecting, making things easier, getting shit handled before it gets worse. Every one of them sounds worse in this kitchen.

“I know I hurt you.”

“That is not the same answer.”

“No.”

She turns toward the stairs.

“What are you doing?”

“Waking Tova.”

“For what?”

“We are leaving.”

“Tonight?”

“Yes.”

“Astrid.”

She stops.

“Did you ask her if she wants to go?”