Chapter 7 7
POV Katherine
"I'm coming home for dinner," his voice said on the other end of the phone.
I stayed still for a few seconds, not knowing what to say. Then I reacted.
"Do you want me to make something?"
"Yes. Something decent."
And he hung up.
Even so, I smiled.
After everything that had happened last night, I hadn’t expected that call. But there it was. Andrew was coming home. For dinner. Maybe he wanted to talk. Maybe he was planning to apologize. Maybe, this time, he really wanted to make things work. Or at least, that’s what I wanted to believe.
It had been a brutal argument. I supposed he’d give me an apology. It was my chance to do things right—to show him I wouldn’t stay buried in the mud, that I could stand up again, with his support, with his patience.
Little by little.
I went to the bathroom with the phone still in my hand, looked at myself in the mirror, and forced a deep breath. The mark on my cheek was still there, barely visible. I covered it with a bit of concealer. I didn’t want him to see it, or think I was still dwelling on it. Not tonight.
His return felt like a new beginning. For both of us.
I thought he’d stay away longer, but this meant there was still hope—that our relationship could come back to life.
I wanted to look beautiful. For him. For me. For everything we used to be before we became strangers living under the same roof.
I undressed and stepped into the shower, letting the hot water wash away not just the day, but the weight of everything I didn’t know how to release. I closed my eyes and rested my forehead against the tiles. I could fix this. I still could.
When I got out, I began the small adventure of finding the right outfit for the evening.
The night of our reconciliation.
I pulled out several dresses before settling on the dark blue one—soft fabric, a wrap neckline, the skirt falling just below the knees. I brushed my hair carefully, gathered it into a half ponytail, left a strand loose to frame my face. Wine-colored lips. A touch of mascara. Nothing more.
Let the first impression be good. Let him see I was trying.
This time, I was going to give it everything I had.
He always said he liked it when I didn’t wear too much makeup. But he also said he loved my lasagna.
So I went to the kitchen and got to work.
It was his favorite dish.
The pasta. The sauce. The minced meat with onion. The béchamel. Each layer made with care, as if, somewhere inside that dish, I could hide the cure for our marriage.
At eight o’clock sharp, I heard the keys turn.
I quickly dried my hands on the apron. I rushed to the door before he could open it fully, and when I saw him, I threw my arms around him and kissed him.
He didn’t push me away. But he didn’t kiss me back either.
He just set down the keys, hung up his coat, and said,
"Smells good."
"I made lasagna. I thought you’d like it…" I tried to smile. "It’s been a while since I made it."
He nodded, without really looking at me.
We sat at the table. I served the portions, poured the last of the wine from our previous dinner, lit a candle—small gestures to turn dinner into something more than just eating.
For a few minutes, only the sound of cutlery filled the air. I was tense—too tense.
"Today I accepted the job with the Martins boy," I said, trying to sound upbeat. "I’ll start giving him lessons this week. You were right—it’s good for me to do something, and it reflects well on you with your boss. I’m sorry it took me so long."
He barely looked up from his plate.
"About time."
Nothing more. No “congratulations.” No “I’m glad for you.” Not even a smile. I thought it would make him happy, but he seemed indifferent.
I forced myself not to take it personally.
"How was your day?" I asked, trying to find a crack in the wall between us. "Busy?"
"The usual."
"And dinner? Do you like it?"
"Yeah."
Silence again. His answers were dull knives—they didn’t cut, but they hurt.
I tried again.
"I was thinking maybe we could watch a movie afterward. Or go for a walk. It’s a nice night."
"You want to go out? That’s new."
"I want… to try everything, Andrew. I know it’s been hell living with me all this time, but I promise—this time things will be different."
He set his fork down.
"I’m going on a trip."
"What?"
"An audit in Bilbao. Two weeks. Maybe more. It could mean a promotion."
My eyes widened. I hadn’t expected that, but the thought made me smile.
"That’s wonderful!" I said, genuinely. "You deserve it, Andrew. I’m sure it’ll go great."
"Yeah."
He finished his plate, got up, carried the dishes to the sink, and said,
"I’m going to pack."
"Wait, I think we should talk. Do you want me to come with you or something?"
"Ha! Yeah, right." He turned his head slightly toward me. "I don’t feel like going with you. In fact, it’s a good idea for us to be apart for a while—it’ll be a relief for both of us. You should focus on Elliot; it’s important for this family that things go well with my boss’s son."
"I understand, but…"
"Do you want to change or not?!"
I lowered my gaze. He was right—maybe distance would be good for us. I couldn’t say anything else.
I stayed there for a few seconds, staring at the empty chair in front of me. Then I cleared the table quickly, put away the leftovers, and went upstairs.
He had already taken the suitcase out of the closet and was laying shirts on the bed.
I approached him. Crouched beside him. Began folding his clothes carefully. He said nothing.
I packed a couple of pants, his favorite blue tie, looked for socks in the drawer.
Then, without thinking, I hugged him from behind.
I pressed my face to his back, felt the warmth of his body through the shirt. My hands rested against his chest, trembling.
"I want us to be okay," I whispered. He didn’t move. "I know I’m not perfect. I know I’ve made mistakes. But… I can be better, Andrew. If you want to, if you try too… we can be okay again."
Silence. He didn’t move away. But he didn’t hug me either.
"I want to get back what we were. Even if it’s just a part. I swear, I can do better." My fingers searched for his hands, but he didn’t hold them. I pulled away slowly. My eyes burned, but I didn’t cry. I wouldn’t. "Well," I said softly, "I’ll help you finish packing."
He only nodded.
I kept folding clothes, putting things neatly into the suitcase like an automaton. He didn’t look at me again. Didn’t say another word.
And inside me, something started to dim. Because I understood that he was leaving. But what hurt most… was realizing he had no intention of truly coming back.
"Katherine," he said later, once we were in bed. "I’m sorry. It’s been hard, but right now I can’t be near you. Maybe…"
"No! Don’t say it, please," I begged.
And he didn’t continue.