BACK HOME, I’m first out of bed Tuesday morning. I am curled up in my big blue chair with a cup of coffee, reading a passage from one of my favourite books, Simple Abundance: A Daybook of Comfort and Joy by Sarah Ban Breathnach.

“Must be a pretty good sex scene.”

I jump, a little startled, and look up to see Sam walking into the living room.

I grin. “Not quite.”

“Whatcha readin’?”

“About how when you do what you love, the money will follow.”

I get the raised brows. “The operative word being,” he says with a wink, “do.”

Then he heads into the kitchen to get a coffee. He returns a moment later and sits on the couch. “It’s good to be home, huh?”

“Sam, I know I gotta get my shit together…with my writing, I mean.”

He stands up again. “Let’s go retrieve the hound.”

BACK HOME from the kennel, we’re barely in the back door when the phone rings.

I answer it. “Oh, hi mom.”

Sam rolls his eyes and walks out of the kitchen.

I tell her a bit about our vacation and then she asks if I have any ideas for Thanksgiving dinner.

“Well,” I reply, uttering words I do not mean, “we could have it here.”

“That would be very nice, Adri.”

“Except that I’m working most of that weekend. And I think Sam is actually working the whole weekend.”

“I could cook the turkey,” she says, “and we could all help out.”

“I dunno Mom, it really isn’t that convenient…”

“Oh.”

“But I’ll see what Sam thinks,” I finish.

I know damn well what he’ll think.

“You’re fucking kidding me, right?” is his actual response.

I cross my arms over my chest. “Nope.”

“You wanna have fifteen people over for dinner—and we’re both working?”

“That’s right.”

Sam glares at me then shakes his head slowly. My stomach tightens.

“You just don’t get it do you?” he says then walks away.

Funny thing is I do get it. I just can’t be bothered to say no to my mom because it’s not worth the hassle. Sam, however, apparently thinks it is—and gives me the silent treatment to prove his point.

By Wednesday afternoon, he still hasn’t said a word to me. Even Sasha, our dog, ignores me. She follows Sam around the house and lies beside him on the floor when he reclines on the couch, affectionately called—by him—the perch.

Sam’s scheduled to work his first shift back at 9:00 p.m. Wednesday evening but I overhear him on the phone telling his sergeant, Tom, he won’t be in.

“You’re taking another court day?” I ask.

“Yes.”

Over the past four years, I can count the times on one hand that Sam has taken a day off work other than for vacation. Not going into work, especially since he’s not speaking to me anyway, is odd. That it’s a night shift he’s missing, as opposed to a day shift, is even stranger. Sam’s a night owl; I’m the early bird.

We eat our dinner in silence. I know he’s a stubborn Taurus, but this is getting ridiculous. I fantasize about leaving him…moving to Vancouver, renting a little apartment and becoming a real writer by the sea. I’d take Sasha and the two of us would walk on the beach during breaks from my blossoming career as a novelist. This is what I’m thinking when I crawl into bed, alone, on Wednesday night.

Thursday morning, I’m working on my computer when I hear him upstairs in the kitchen, pouring his coffee. When he comes downstairs, I don’t look up.

He walks by my desk. “Mornin’.”

“Morning,” I reply in my iciest voice.

He walks over, lies down on the couch and flips on the TV.

Dink. I resume typing.

Ten minutes later, he turns the TV off. “What do you do over there all the time in your little office?” he asks.

My silent treatment has been lifted. Big of him.

“I’m building an empire,” I say, referring to the fact that I had been researching a stock price. “And I also happen to be writing a novel, in case you’ve forgotten.”

He sighs. “No, I haven’t forgotten.”

“Good.”

“Is that what you’re working on today?”

“Sort of. I’m editing a poem I wrote about an old university prof of mine—but it’s supposed to be about Liz’s former professor.”

“Liz is the character based on you, right?”

“Uh huh,” I say glumly. Fiction isn’t turning out to be my strong point.

“Let’s hear it.”

“I dunno…it’s in pretty rough shape.”

“That’s OK.” Sam settles back into the couch and assumes his best thinking position: thumb beneath chin, index finger on cheek, middle finger above mouth.

The poem is a dreadful piece of writing. Liz’s frustration about not living up to her potential, however, is crystal clear. When I finish, there isn’t a peep from the perch.

Hearing my own words out loud makes me realize I’m a spoiled brat wallowing in self-pity. And I’m blaming my lack of writing on having to work at a regular job.

“Very interesting,” says Sam. “And what, exactly, did your prof teach you that was so important?”

I jump up. “He taught me how to think! How we need to question the underlying assumptions that have led us to the mess we’re in.”

Sam smiles ever so slightly, stands up and takes his mug from the coffee table. “Let’s go to the dog park.”

In the Jeep, he doesn’t say much and the tension between us is palpable. Ten minutes into our walk the volcano erupts.

“I think you’re trying to control me,” I blurt.

He stops walking. “Why do you say that?”

“This Thanksgiving thing is a perfect example. It’s as if whatever you say goes—but there are two of us in this relationship you know.”

“I realize that. But having dinner at our place this year simply isn’t convenient.”

“Fine. But why do you have to be such a prick about it?”

“Don’t swear, Adri.”

“What’s your fucking problem?”

“Don’t raise your voice at me.”

“You’re not my goddamn father!” I scream. “Stop treating me like a child!”

“Then stop acting like one.”

Steam is coming out of my ears by this point, but Sam has more to say: “I just don’t understand why you can’t say no to anyone.”

“Oh God, here we go,” I groan, “back to my mother.”

“I’m not mad at your mom anymore. It’s you I’m disappointed in.”

My stomach tightens. “Well, isn’t that dandy.”

“Do you even want to have the damn dinner?” he asks.

“No.”

“Then maybe it’s time you learn how to say that. And maybe you should spend less time pleasing everyone else and more time on you—and on us.”

I blink back tears. “Sam, I feel like I’m not being my true self around you anymore. I’m holding back on saying what I really think or feel because I know it’ll lead to a fight.”

“Seriously?”

“Yeah.”

“Then don’t do that anymore,” he says. “Starting now.”

“OK…” I take a deep breath. “I’m scared shitless I’m gonna wake up twenty years from now and still not have finished writing a book.”

He looks me in the eye. “You’re probably right about that—as long as you know that’ll have been your choice.”

I open my mouth—like a goldfish waiting to be fed—but no words come out.

“I believe in you,” he continues, “but until you make your writing a priority and take it seriously, nobody else ever will.”

“I don’t have time to write!”

“Then find it.”

“When? I have to work at a stupid clerical job.”

“Not twenty-four seven, you don’t. What happened to writing in the morning, before you leave for work?”

“I’m trying. But when the alarm goes off, I come up with a bunch of excuses as to why the next day would be better. I keep procrastinating.”

“Then stop procrastinating.”

“It’s not that easy!”

“Nothing worthwhile ever is. There are no shortcuts.”

“I get your goddamn point,” I say through gritted teeth.

We stare at each other until Sam breaks into a goofy grin. “Geez,” he says, “I can be a real asshole, can’t I?”

“I’ll say.”

“Adri look…you’re the smartest person I know. It kills me to see you wasting your potential racing around like a chicken with its head cut off.”

He looks so sad—but I know he’s right. I promise myself to wake up at 5:00 a.m. tomorrow to start the next draft of my novel before going in to work.

We walk back toward the parking lot, chatting about the upcoming days. Sam’s heading back to work tonight; I start again tomorrow morning.

At home, he has a quick bite to eat then takes a nap while I putter around the garage. But I catch myself fantasizing about how good it would be if I could work from home as a writer and not have to go to my regular job.

When Sam wakes up, he showers while I sit on the bathroom counter, chirping away at him. When he’s finished, I hand him his towel.

Then, because my car needs to be fixed, I take it to the gas station and Sam picks me up there in his Jeep. He drives us to his work, so I can drop him off because I’ll need the Jeep to get to my work tomorrow.

“But how will you get home in the morning?” I ask as he pulls up behind his District’s police station.

“Tom can drop me off.”

We get out of the Jeep and he hands me the keys.

I give him a quick kiss. “Have a good shift!”

He nods then walks to the back door of the police station. I get in the driver’s seat and am just about to drive away when I glance out the window and see that he’s still standing outside, watching me. I smile and wave, but he just nods curtly then goes inside.