The promotion dinner had been held at a dark-paneled steakhouse in Buckhead where the hostess had cheekbones like glass and the menus did not list prices on the specials. Jason’s boss, Mitchell Grant, raised a glass and talked about drive, grit, numbers, leadership presence. The other men at the table nodded at Jason as if he had pulled himself out of a burning building instead of beating two other sales managers for a role with a bigger territory and a cleaner title. Their wives smiled politely. One asked me whether nursing was “emotionally rewarding,” the way people ask when they mean underpaid but useful.
Jason told the table that my job kept me busy, but “the real stress” had been on him these past few years.
I had smiled.
I had learned over time that marriage can train your face into obedience before your heart realizes what is happening.
Now, in the car, he was finally saying the rest.
“We’ll split things fairly,” he said. “I’ll handle my stuff. You handle yours. No more assuming my money is just household money.”
My mouth went dry.
In the back seat, Ellie shifted and sighed in her sleep.