“It says AGREEMENT at the top, Greg. Underlined twice.”
“I know.”
“It gives away my den. It gives away my deed.”
“I know.”
“And then you put her money in our account and you wrote D. For the house, and when I saw it, you told me it was for the car and you closed my laptop.”
He flinched.
“I couldn’t tell you she was paying for our house,” he said. “I couldn’t tell you I couldn’t do it. You were doing everything. I was supposed to be doing something.”
“And last night? When she stood up and said she could finally make this house her own? Why did you smile?”
He was quiet for a long time.
“Because she’s been talking about curtains for two years,” he said. “I thought she meant curtains. I thought she meant she’d finally get to pick out a rug and stop sighing at the dishes.” He rubbed his face. “And because I was so relieved it was paid off that I didn’t want to hear anything else. I didn’t want to think about the paper. I just wanted one night where it was over.”
