“Yes.”
Megan gave me a look.
“You could soften these answers occasionally.”
“You married the distribution manager.”
“That was my mistake.”
We smiled.
Then she became serious.
“If you ever bring me something like that again, I don’t want you to feel like you have to gather evidence first.”
I appreciated that.
“But I also don’t want my discomfort automatically becoming your obligation.”
She nodded.
“So what do we do?”
“Talk before either of us builds a courtroom.”
She laughed.
“Very healthy.”
“Terrifying.”
Trust did not return in one dramatic scene because it had never completely disappeared. What changed was the ease of it. Before, Megan could go outside and I would barely register where Logan was. Afterward, my attention sometimes moved automatically toward his deck.
I hated that reflex.
Megan noticed it occasionally.
“You looked.”
“Yes.”
“Are you okay?”
“Yes.”
She waited.
“Still working on it.”
She nodded.
“Me too.”
That became enough.
One Saturday about a month after Megan set the boundary, we spent the morning reorganizing the flower bed. She decided a row of lavender needed to move because the plants were not receiving enough morning sun, which sounded suspiciously similar to the explanation she had given for moving them twice before. I informed her the lavender was becoming more geographically mobile than most military families.
She handed me a shovel.
“Dig.”
“This marriage has become authoritarian.”
“My shovel isn’t yours to control.”
I stared at her.
She froze.
Then we both started laughing.
The joke was dangerous enough that neither of us expected it to land well.
It did.
Megan wiped tears from the corner of her eyes. “That may have been too soon.”
“Probably.”
“Sorry.”
“It was funny.”
She smiled.
I started digging.
Megan wore a strapless red top and denim shorts that morning. At some point, I realized I had noticed the clothes only because they reminded me of our original argument. They did not bother me.
They had never been the problem.
Halfway through moving the lavender, Logan stepped outside with a camera bag over one shoulder.
He looked toward us.
The old pattern flashed through my body for maybe one second.
Then he raised his hand.
“Morning.”
“Morning,” I said.
Megan waved. “Hey.”
Logan continued toward his SUV.
No pause.
No fence conversation.
No invented garden question.
He loaded the camera bag and left.
Megan watched the vehicle disappear down the street, then turned toward the hole I had dug.
“That’s too deep.”
I looked down.
“You asked for a hole.”
“I asked you to move lavender, not hide evidence.”
“You provide poor specifications.”
She took the shovel from me.
“This is why I don’t trust you.”
“With plants.”
“Yes.”
“Important qualifier.”
Megan smiled.
For the first time in weeks, I realized neither of us had talked about Logan after he left.
The yard belonged to us again.
Not legally; it always had.
Emotionally.
That distinction was harder to explain.
The following summer, Logan sold his house.
The decision had nothing to do with us as far as I knew. He had started dating a woman in Carmel and eventually moved closer to her. On moving day, he walked over while I was washing my truck.
“Hey.”
“Hey.”
He stood awkwardly for a moment.
“I’m heading out tomorrow.”
“Heard.”
He looked toward our backyard.
Then back at me.
“I should probably say something.”
“You don’t have to.”
“I know.”
He rubbed the back of his neck.
“I got too comfortable.”
I waited.
“With Megan.”
“Yes.”
He nodded.
“She never crossed a line with me.”
“I know.”
“I probably kept seeing how close I could get without technically doing anything.”
That was more honest than expected.
“Probably.”
He gave a short laugh.
“You’re not going to make this easy.”
“I don’t know what easy would accomplish.”
“Fair.”
Logan looked toward his house.
“I’m sorry.”
I believed him.
“Thank you.”
That was all.