«Hey,» he said, barely glancing at me as he walked past the dining table toward the bedroom.
«Brandon,» I said softly. «I made dinner. It’s our anniversary.»
He stopped walking and turned around like he’d forgotten I was there. His eyes moved over the table, the candles now burned halfway down, the covered dishes, the cake with ‘Happy Anniversary’ written in blue icing.
«Grace, I told you I was stuck at the hospital.»
«You’re wearing a suit,» I said. «Not scrubs.»
His jaw tightened. «I had to change for a meeting afterward, a professional obligation.»
«On our anniversary? You couldn’t tell them you had plans?»
«Some things are more important than dinner, Grace.»
«More important than our anniversary? More important than eight years of marriage?»
I felt something crack inside my chest. «Please,» I said, my voice barely above a whisper. «Just sit with me for a few minutes. The food’s still warm. We can…»
«I’m not hungry,» he interrupted. «I ate already, at the meeting.»
He walked to the bedroom. I stood there in my dollar store dress, looking at the table I’d prepared with such hope. The candles flickered. The food was getting cold.