WHEN YUKI AND Brady were seated in “their” booth, their drink orders in, Yuki put her hand on her husband’s arm.
“Brady,” she said. “Full disclosure. My birthday is next week. I called an emergency dinner.”
“You’re kiddin’ me. What, hon? What’s wrong?”
She looked down at the table, her rehearsed speech feeling thick and stupid and stuck in her throat. She remembered what Claire had said: That man loves you to death.
Maybe Brady didn’t realize the width of the gap that was opening between them.
She felt the weight of the angel skin coral beads around her neck, Brady’s wedding gift to her before their honeymoon cruise. People had died on that ship. Brady had saved lives. He’d saved her life. She’d loved him then and had come to love him even more. What was he feeling?
“Yuki? What is it?”
“I miss you, Brady. We never talk anymore,” she said. “We need to talk.”
Brady smiled, grabbed her hand, and said, “Aw. Thanks for the sneaky heads-up on your birthday. I’ll be sure to send flowers next week.”
Yuki thought, He doesn’t get it. Or he doesn’t feel the same way. Or he doesn’t want to open up. All of that was possible. All of that was painful.
Their waitress materialized with a blood orange margarita for her, sparkling water with a slice of lemon for Brady. Yuki put down half her drink right away. She had told Claire that neither she nor Brady liked to talk about squishy feelings, but hell, an uncomfortable talk was not just necessary, it was overdue.
Bolstered by tequila, Yuki took the plunge—again.
“It feels like we’re losing each other,” she said.
“I’m right here,” said Brady. “Scooch over.”
She slid toward him, and Brady reached over and dragged her close, wrapping both of his arms around her, resting his chin on the top of her head and saying, “What brought this on? Oh, I get it.”
He pulled back to look into her face.
“This is about your birthday. And now you’re thinking about having a baby?”
Yuki leaned against Brady’s chest, slipped her fingers between his shirt buttons.
“No,” she said, “no, this isn’t about a baby. Not now.”
“Okay, good. What is it, then?” her husband asked.
“Don’t you feel it?” she said. “That we’re kind of drifting apart?”
There was some silence before Brady said, “I see. I see. I’m neglecting you.”
He disengaged from their embrace, seemed flustered or as if he was looking for the right words. He sipped his water before saying, “Jacobi unloaded a pile of administrative work on me. He just can’t handle it all anymore. On top of that and every other dog biting my butt, I’m primary on that attempted murder and suicide.”
Yuki had heard about the case. A woman had left divorce court and driven her car onto a sidewalk and into her husband, his girlfriend, and the husband’s lawyer. Then she had sped to the Golden Gate Bridge, climbed over the railing, and jumped to her death.
Brady said, “The husband and girlfriend are okay, but the lawyer is in ICU. If he dies, it’s got to be processed as a homicide, even though the killer already self-inflicted the death penalty.”
Yuki said, “See, I miss talking like this. Even about work. Hearing what you’re thinking about.”
He tipped up her chin and pecked her lips. When dinner came, Yuki turned down another drink. Brady ate like he hadn’t eaten in the last twenty-four hours. After he had put down his knife and fork, he asked her to bring him up to speed on her woman-on-man rape case.
While she was telling him, he glanced at his phone a couple or three times, saying “Hang on” and “’Scuse me,” returning texts before shutting the phone off.
“Sorry,” he said. “Work. My phone is always open.”
He couldn’t turn off his phone for an hour? That clinging sadness she’d been carrying around had finally lightened, and now it was weighing her down again.
They skipped dessert and coffee. Later that night when they were both in bed, and rain clouds veiled, then revealed, the full moon outside their bedroom window, Yuki lay wide awake.
Had Brady been telling her the truth when he said he was just overly busy? Or was he keeping something from her?
What in the world was wrong?