Shaking her head, Sarah walked past him, adding Ari’s intrusion to the list of things she’d make Eli answer for. She washed her hands in the kitchen and started up the stairs. She’d meant to walk, but found herself stomping as she approached the bedroom, with her pulse hammering in her throat. I’m going to say something, she thought. I’m going to tell him that if things don’t change, he’ll have to leave. I can’t keep going like this.
She opened the bedroom door. Eli was in the closet, standing in front of his tie rack, in suit pants and an undershirt. His feet were bare, shoulders were slumped, his posture defeated, and on his face was a look of such aching despair that Sarah’s first impulse was to go to him, wrap her arms around him, to hold him and tell him that whatever was wrong would be okay, that they’d figure it out together.
At the sound of her footsteps, Eli turned. She could see him gathering himself, smoothing his face into a semblance of calm. But she’d already seen how miserable he’d looked. Was he sick? Could that be it?
“Eli,” she said.
He gave her a rueful look, then turned his face to the floor. In a low voice, he said, “I know.”
She stared at him, stunned into silence. “What?” she asked. “You know what?”
“I know Ari’s downstairs on the couch.” He took a breath. “I know I’ve been a terrible husband. I know I’ve been ignoring you. I know…” His voice cracked. Sarah felt the surprise of that admission hitting her body like pellets of hail. She felt, again, that yearning to cross the room, to take him in her arms and comfort him, but before she could start moving, Eli turned back toward the ties.
“Why?” she asked, her voice sharp. “Why have you been ignoring me? What’s going on?” She crossed the room and put her hand on his shoulder, feeling him stiffen under her touch. “Can’t you tell me?”
His shoulders rose as he inhaled. “Not now.”
Sarah felt her face get hot. “Why not?”
“I can’t,” he said, in a leaden voice. She slipped her arm around his waist and leaned against him, inhaling his familiar scent, his comforting warmth. She squeezed him. Eli did not put his arm over her shoulders and squeeze back.
“Just wait until the wedding’s over,” he said. “We can talk about everything then.”
“Are you having an affair?”
His eyes widened in shock. “No,” he said, sounding startled that she’d even think it, and his denial sounded heartfelt. But there was something going on. His posture, his expression, all of it looked guilty.
“No?” she asked. He shook his head mutely.
“So what is it, then? I don’t understand. Why can’t you tell me what’s wrong?” she asked. She could hear herself, sounding loud and raw and pained.
“I can’t,” he said, in a strange, muted voice. “I’m sorry, Sarah. But I just can’t.”
“Eli.” She tried to sound reasonable. “You’re my husband. We’re a team. You can’t just check out of this marriage and not even tell me why!”
Eli didn’t respond. She waited, giving him a chance, staring at him, mentally begging him to say something. When it was clear he’d said all that he meant to, she let go of his waist and stepped back. “Eli, I got an apartment,” she said in a rush. She saw the words, not him, saw his body sag. “It’s just a studio, near the school. I rented a piano. I just—I need—” She waved her hands, angry to the point of speechlessness.
“I know.” His voice was a hollow echo of itself. He looked, and sounded, like a pale, thin facsimile of her husband, his voice holding none of the familiar warmth, his expression showing no concern. Fight for me, Sarah thought. Fight for us. Tell me I can’t go. Tell me you’ll do better. Tell me what’s wrong.
Instead, what Eli said was, “I understand.”
“Well, I don’t,” Sarah snapped.
Instead of an answer, all she got was another sigh. “Do what you have to do.”
He selected a tie and left the closet, gathering his shirt and his suit jacket and his wallet. Then he slipped his feet into his goddamn fucking flip-flops and went slap-slapping out of the room without a backward glance, leaving Sarah alone, furious and bewildered, her thoughts right back to where they’d been that morning. He’s having an affair. That thought was followed, almost immediately, by more despairing ruminations: But I love him, and How can he do this?, and Oh, God, what am I going to do now?