I tucked the yellow pad back under the drawer paper and smoothed down the front of my blue sweater with both thumbs to keep my hands still.

At half past six, the heavy door between the kitchen and the garage clicked open and shut.

Mark walked in carrying two brown paper bags filled with warm takeout containers from the steakhouse near the highway.

I stepped out of the hallway into the kitchen light and stood near the end of the quartz island while he set the bags down.

“Mark,” I said, speaking slowly so my voice wouldn’t shake.