The blue ink pen vanished into Julian’s breast pocket the moment I turned from the counter. He had been scribbling numbers on a yellow legal pad, but now his hand sat flat on the paper, covering the top sheet.
I set his mug down next to his hand. The steam rose between us, thin and gray in the cold morning light of the kitchen. On the counter sat my new sixty-dollar beige leather makeup bag, still zipped, a small luxury I had bought myself the day before.
“The interest rates are climbing, Audrey,” Julian said. He took a sip of the coffee, his eyes tracking my movements as I reached for the sugar. “We need to consolidate before the third quarter ends. It is simple math.”
I tapped my index finger against my collarbone, counting the beats of his voice. “The townhouse is solely in my name, Julian. The deed was finalized three years before we met.”
“Of course,” he said, offering a small, thin smile. He rubbed his lower lip with his thumb, a slow, rhythmic motion. “But as a married couple, our credit profiles are linked. Putting my name on the deed would allow us to leverage the equity for the consultancy. It is a mere administrative update.”
“No,” I said.
Julian did not look up from his mug. He simply drew the legal pad closer to his chest, his thumb still resting against his lip.
“It is a bit late in our lives to be holding onto separate corners, do you not think?” he asked, his voice carrying that familiar, gentle slide. “We are supposed to be building a future, not guarding gatehouses.”
I did not answer him. I took my mug to the sink and rinsed the spoon, focusing on the cold water running over my knuckles.
The afternoon air outside the Maple Valley Bank on Elm Street carried the dry, papery smell of oak leaves. Greg, the commercial loan officer, was idling his sedan near the curb when I walked past the low brick planters. He rolled down his passenger window, his gray suit jacket bunched around his shoulders.
