“No. Chelsea, no. I meant the hospital.”
Relief hit me so hard I had to grab the counter.
But then confusion followed.
“What are you talking about?”
“He accepted another position.”
I waited.
“No. Chelsea, no. I meant the hospital.”
“Where?”
“Oregon.”
The relief vanished.
“What job in Oregon?”
Arnold closed his eyes.
Arnold had worked beside Ben for years. He’d eaten at our table often enough that I knew what his silence meant.
“What job in Oregon?”
“You’re crying because he’s leaving.”
He wiped his cheek.
“He’s my best friend, Chelsea. I thought you knew.”
***
Ben and I had been married for eleven years.
I had spent every one of them sharing him with that hospital.
He was a gifted surgeon, and I was proud that the man I loved helped people through some of the worst days of their lives.
“You’re crying because he’s leaving.”
But over the past year, I had started wrapping up his dinner before I even sat down to eat mine.
He missed Thanksgiving, our anniversary, and our daughter Olive’s eighth birthday.
Sometimes he didn’t come home at all.
“We’re short-staffed, honey. Please don’t wait up.”
Whenever he finally crawled into bed, he looked so exhausted I swallowed every complaint.
Once, I woke to find him sitting on the edge of the mattress, his shoulders shaking.
“We’re short-staffed, honey.”
“Ben?”
