CHAPTER 134 – Cold Return
CHAPTER 134 – Cold Return
Lisa's POV
I hear his car in the driveway at 11:47 PM.
But now he's home. My heart starts racing and I leap up from the sofa in the darkness. The front door is slowly opened and Leo enters, slowly closing the door behind him.
"Leo,"
He raises a hand, he’s stopping me. "Not tonight, Lisa."
The chill in his tone makes me stop in my tracks. “I just - I’m glad you’re home.”
“I came back for clothes,” he says flatly, without looking at me. "I'm sleeping in the guest house."
I got punched in the gut by those words. "Oh. "
"Did you get my text?"
"I got it."
“And?”
He hesitates on the stairs, his back to me. “And what? You want me to congratulate you for finally doing what you should have done a week ago?”
I flinch.
"No, I just... I wanted you to know that I picked you. That I—"
"I need space, Lisa." He continues up the stairs without turning around. "Please respect that."
I’m standing at the bottom of the stairs, watching him fade into the corridor. A door closes — the guest room — and the noise bounces off the walls of the house like a gunshot.
He's home, but he might as well have been a thousand miles away.
I drop down on the bottom step, fresh tears running down my cheeks. At least he came back. That’s got to mean something, right? He could have stayed away, could have gone to a hotel, but he came home.
Even if home means they go to sleep in different rooms.
I finally haul myself upstairs and into our bedroom—my bedroom, I s’pose, for now. Without him, the bed seems too big and too lonely. I sleep on my side, looking at his pillow, and crying myself to sleep.
Morning arrives before I’m ready and with a pounding headache.
I awake at the sound of a shower running in the hall bath — not in our bathroom, which means Leo is up and moving. I peek at the time: 6:23 A.M. I hurriedly get up, washing my swollen face, trying to make myself look at least half way presentable. When the shower stops, I go down to brew some coffee, wishing that maybe this morning we can have a conversation. Talk. Talk.
I have the eggs on the stove and Leo is coming down by the time my coffee is brewing. He pauses in the kitchen doorway, eyeing me suspiciously.
“Good Morning,” I say softly.
"Morning." His voice is flat and completely devoid of any emotion.
“Made coffee. .. And eggs. Your favorite — scrambled with cheese and chives.”
“Thank you.” He pours himself a cup of coffee, but not towards the table.
“Are you going to get in? Please? For just a few minutes?”
After a pause, he nods stiffly and takes a seat at the table. I bring over two plates and take a seat opposite him, my hands trembling slightly as I rest them on the table.
We are silent as we begin eating. I keep looking at him from time to time to try to know what he is thinking, but his face is not read.
"Leo," I start, laying down my fork. “About my text last night—"
“I saw it.”
“Everything I said was the truth. I blocked Andre. He is completely out of my life. ”
“Okay.” He takes a bite of eggs, with a thoughtful chewing.
“If you want, I can show you my phone. Prove that he's blocked that I deleted everything —"
"I believe you. "
These words should bring relief, but they are spoken in such a flat, innocuous voice that I am left feeling even worse.
"Then... are we okay?" I inquire, disliking how timorous my voice sounds.
“No, Lisa. We’re not okay.”
My heart sinks. “But I blocked him.I chose you—”
"You picked me after lying to me for a whole week." Yet his voice iscalm; there is an impermeable steel plate beneath. "You picked meafter consulting with him in secret. You picked meafter I had learned the news by inadvertently picking up your phone."
"I know, and I’msuch a fuck up—"
"I know you’re sorry." He lifts his coffee and drinks it. "Sorry doesn’t changewhat happened." It doesn't erase the lies. No it doesn’t make me trust you again."
Each word is a knife, driving deeper and deeper into them. "So what’re we supposed to do about it?"
"I need time, Lisa. Time to process this. Time to see if I can get over this."
"How long will this take?"
He swivels to me, and for the first time this morning, I catch some emotion in his eyes—they are filled with pain, confusion, and tiredness: "I don’t know that either."
He runs his plate under water and loads it into the dishwasher with such deliberate care, as if that simple act is what’s helping him not to look at me.
"I do love you," I say desperately. "You have to know that."
"I know that." He closes the dishwasherdoor. "But it’s not the problem with love here. Trust is. And I don’t know how to trust you again when you hid something this huge from me.”
"I’ll do whatever it takes—"
“I know. You keep telling me that.” He grabs his briefcase from the doorframe, where he had set it down by the door. “But part of me just needs space right now.”
He starts to the door, and I trail him, my stomach tight with nerves.
“Will you be home for dinner?” I ask.
“I don’t know. I have a late meeting.”
“Okay. I'll ... I'll make something anyway! In case you're hungry."
He is opening the door, his hand on the doorknob, and I think for a second maybe he’ll say something more, give me a little bit of hope. But he just opens the door and walks out.
No kiss goodbye. No "I love you." Nothing warm. “Nothing at all.”
Only cold, distant politeness.
Through the window, I watch him get in his car and back out of the driveway. He does not look back at the house. Did not wave.
Just drives away. Now go!
I lean against the door frame, arms wrapped around myself. This is worse than last night’s rage. At least rage is a feeling, is fiery, is something I can do something with.
This chill is terrifying.
With unbearable slowness the day passes. I try to work from home, but I can't concentrate. Can't stop looking at my phone every five minutes to see if Leo has texted. Can’t help but keep playing this morning’s conversation in my head.
But love isn’t the problem here. Trust is.
He's right, obviously. I know he's right. But how do I regain trust? How Do I Show Him I’ll Never Do This Again?
I’m cleaning obsessively.
But no amount of cleaning makes me forget Leo’s icy, remoteness. The way he stared at me like I was a complete stranger.
Some time around 3 O’Clock in the afternoon, I decide to make his favorite meal—pot roast with vegetables and garlic mashed potatoes. It’s long hours of work, loosely measured, which is fine. Keeps my hands busy and my mind occupied on anything other than the fact that all the foundation of my relationship is crumbling.
Everything is finished at 6 p. m. The house smells like wonderful — like comfort and home and all things sweet.
I lay the table, with the fancy placemats and the cloth napkins. I even light a candle in the middle, then I have doubts and I blow it out. Too much? Too romantic? Don’t want to him to get the impression I am trying to manipulate him too much with ambience. 6:30 comes and goes. No Leo.
7:00. No Leo.
I text him: Dinner is ready when you get home.
No response.
At 7:30 I stop waiting and I serve up for myself at the plate. The food is good, but it tastes like ash in my mouth. I eat anyway, because I know I have to keep my strength up.
I'm washing up when his car pulls into the driveway.
My heart leaps, and I have to stop myself from bolting to the door. I remain in the kitchen, rinsing off dishes, trying to pretend I know what I'm doing when he arrives.
"Hey," I say, looking back over my shoulder. "I made pot roast. Your favorite. Are you hungry?"
"I ate already." He puts down his briefcase. “Sorry, I should have texted.”
"It's alright. I can put some in the fridge for tomorrow—"
"Nah, it’s all good." He's already going to the stairs. “I just have some work to finish. I’ll be in the guest room.”
“Oh. Okay.”
He stops at the bottom of the stairs. "The house looks nice. Clean ."
“Thanks. I had some time today.”
Nods and then he continues up the stairs not uttering another word.
I'm in the kitchen, I hear his footsteps come from above, I hear the guest room door shut.
That is my life now. Living in the same house as the man I love but I’m completely shut out.
The evening drags dreadfully.
I watch TV but I’m not really paying attention. Try to read but the words run together. Upstairs I can hear Leo rustling about, the bed creaks, the occasional footstep.
He’s so close but may as well be lightyears away.
At 10 PM, I hear the guest room door open. I’m excited my heart soars, and maybe he’s coming down, maybe he wants to talk.
But no. He comes into the bathroom, and I hear the water running in the shower.
I curl up on the couch,take a blanket, and just listen to him as he’s getting ready for bed. Sounds like they should be relaxing—signs that he’s here, that he made it home—but instead they just highlight how far apart we are now.
The shower turns off. More sounds of notes. Then the guest room door closes again.
Silence.
I think about going upstairs, knocking on his door, talking to him. But he wanted space, and the last thing I want to do is distance him more by disregarding that.
So here I just sit in the dark living room by myself, waiting for a hint that never will come.
At last i drag myself to bed at about midnight.
The bedroom doesn’t feel right without Leo in it. Too big, too empty, too cold. I lie on my side,‘on his side of the bed, and try to remember what it was like when we’d fall asleep all tangled up.
When he would kiss my forehead and say 'I love you' in the dark.
Was that really only a week ago? It’s like this for forever.
The opposite side of the bed is still clear, still clean.
I look at my phone, 6:15 AM. And I can already hear Leo in the shower down the hall.
Ditto yesterday's program.
I rise and descend to make once more coffee. Maybe today is different. “Maybe he’ll soften up a bit today and he’ll give me a little hope that we can work through this.”
But when he descends a quarter of an hour later, it is the same yesterday’s look – cautious, bland, cold - on his face. Sipping from the foil-cap of a yogurt, he says, “Good morning.”
"Morning. I can make breakfast again if you want—”
“I’ll just eat at work.” He looks at his watch. “I have an early meeting.”
“Okay.” I Needed something to hold on to, so I cupped my hands around my own coffee mug. “Leo?”
He is looking at me expectantly.
“How long is this going to go on? The... the distance? The separate rooms?”
He's quiet for a moment, his jaw working. “I don’t know, Lisa. As long as I need.”
“I just... I miss you.”
A flicker plays across his face – pain, perhaps, or yearning, but it passes too quickly and I might have been seeing things.
“I miss you too,” he says quietly. “But you know, us missing each other doesn’t fix what’s broken.”
"And then tell me how to fix it." I am pleading now, tears imminent. “If you tell me what I have to do, I’ll do it.”
“I can’t tell you that.” He puts down his coffee cup. “It’s not something you can fix with a big gesture or the right words. I need time to process what happened. To decide if I can trust you again.”
“You can trust me—”
“Can I?” He’s looking right at me now, and the uncertainty in his eyes shatters my heart.
“Because one week ago I thought I could trust you with my life. I was wrong.”
The words are suspended between us, laden and agonizing.
“I have to go,” says he, as he is already making for the door.
"Are you coming home to dinner?”
“Probably late again.”
Two days living in this horrible limbo and this is what I get.
I don’t know how many more days I can get through.