I try to think of the male equivalent of tampons, but I come up empty. Yet I don’t stop looking. He has secrets. I know it. Because twenty-two years later, those secrets have started catching up with us. Even before we moved here. Even before my “accidents.” Things have been strained between us.

Then, patting down the dark-gray suit jacket, I feel it. Something thin and flat in the lapel. I stop, search more slowly. Then pull an old, tattered envelope from the inside jacket pocket.

Just as I hear the creak of a board on the stairs.

I freeze, feeling like the proverbial kid caught with her hand in the cookie jar. There is no place for me to run. If he’s already up the stairs, he has a clear view of the doorway, would spot me the moment I exit his bedroom. There’s only one thing to do, then.

I don’t leave the room. Instead, I jam the envelope into the back waistband of my yoga pants. Then I limp hastily across the room, breathing already ragged, and throw myself faceup onto the bed.

A second later, Thomas’s voice comes from the hall. “Nicky? Nicky? You all right?”

I don’t answer. Don’t trust myself to speak without sounding guilty or flustered. But a moment later, I don’t have to. Thomas looms in the doorway, his gaze finding me lying coffin straight on my side of the bed.

He doesn’t say anything right away. Just makes his approach, eyes upon my face.

“I’m testing it out,” I offer.

“And?”

“It feels familiar.”

“It should. You used to sleep there.” He doesn’t come directly to me, but instead loops around the bed. I feel a faint pressure on the mattress as he takes his position. In contrast to my rigidity, he tucks his hands behind his head, crosses his legs at his ankles. I turn my head to study him. It’s his bed, his room; he looks as if he belongs here.

“Why did I move out?”

He rolls onto his side.

“Come here,” he says.

I don’t immediately move.

“More testing,” he says, and gestures to the space beside him. I know what he wants; I just can’t do it. Then I don’t have to. He comes to me, closing the space between us. Until the heat of his body is pressed next to mine. I can smell sawdust, sweat, the residual soap from his morning shower. I hold my breath, not sure what to expect, not sure what I want to happen next.

He reaches out and feathers back my long hair. The pad of his thumb is rough. I feel it trace gently around the first line of stitches, then the second, the third. I flinch, but not because he’s hurting me.

“Do you wonder if we have sex?” he asks. “Two decades later, does our marriage still involve intimacy?”

I can’t speak. I’m too aware of him, touch, sound, smell. I understand immediately, instinctively, that none of this is new or unfamiliar. I like his touch. Crave it, even. The feel of his body over mine. The intense look on his face as he first thrusts into me. The sound of his heart, pounding wildly in my ear.

“You still want me,” he continues. “I still want you. Sometimes, I think it’s the only way we still connect. In here, lights out, we find each other again. And I know you need me, want me, love me, even if you remain too quiet the rest of the day.”

“Why did I move out?” I whisper. His fingers are still dancing across my face, working the edge of my hairline. Is he trying to distract me? Do I care?

“You have night terrors. Always have. But lately, after your fall down the basement steps, they’ve become worse. You wake up screaming, nearly out of your mind, sweat pouring down your face. If I try to touch you in any way, reach out, offer a soothing hand, you get worse.”

“I hit you.”

“Sometimes.”

“I smashed your head with a lamp.”

“That hurt.”

“Then I cried. Because I didn’t mean it, I really didn’t, and you had blood pouring down your face.”

“You thought it was best if you slept alone.”

“So I couldn’t hurt you.”

“You think leaving our bed didn’t hurt me?”

My gaze falls. I can’t look at him and the vulnerability on his face. I find myself touching his chest, my palm flat, my fingers splayed. I can feel his heartbeat. It’s surprisingly steady, given how fast I know my own is racing.

“Do you love me?” I hear myself ask.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

He smiles; I can feel the movement of his lips against my hair. I inhale again, the scent of his skin.

“In the beginning,” he murmurs, “you were so sad. It was like a tangible presence, all around you. And I thought . . . I wanted to see you smile for real. I wanted to be the man who made you happy.”

“Is that love?” I asked him. “Or is that a hero complex?”

“I don’t know anymore,” he tells me, and I know he’s being honest. “Maybe it’s something in between. But when I finally did get you to smile, it all seemed worth it. And I just wanted to do it again and again. I figure there are worse ways to spend a life than making the woman I love happy.”

“But I’m not happy.”

“You were. At least, in the beginning. When we first left New Orleans, we went to Austin. You loved the warm weather, the great music, the dogs frolicking in Zilker Park. But then you got restless. More bad days, fewer good days, so we tried San Francisco. Then Phoenix. And Boulder, and Seattle, and Portland, and Chicago, and Knoxville and Raleigh and Fort Lauderdale and, and, and . . . You would be happy. Then you would be sad. So we would move again. Because to this day, all I want is to make you smile.”

I don’t speak.

“But you’re right: I can’t make you happy anymore,” Thomas says quietly. “You wear your sadness again, and when I try to ask you questions, you refuse to answer. What do you need, how can I make you happy? Just tell me what you want. But you don’t talk to me anymore, Nicky. Hell, I couldn’t even get you to come clean about that damn yellow quilt.”

“It’s mine,” I hear myself say. Immediate. Defensive.

“You ordered it on eBay three years ago. Day it came, you locked yourself in the bedroom with it and cried all day. I asked, I waited, I begged. But you’ve never told me why you need it so badly, what makes it so special. Most of my life I have loved you. And still, there are moments when I’m sure I don’t know you at all.”

“You have secrets, too,” I say, conscious of the worn envelope pressed against the small of my back.

“Silence breeds silence,” my husband says.

“Why do you stay with me? It sounds like I’m nothing but trouble.”

“Because I haven’t given up hope.”

“Hope of what?”

“That someday, I can make you smile again.”

He rolls away from me. I feel his absence more acutely than I would like. The air is cold, the bed empty, and for a second, my hand actually reaches out, as if I would call him back. It comes to me, what I thought the first moment I saw him. He was looking right at me, smiling right at me. And my first impression was I wished he would just go away.

But then, once he left, I wished he’d come back, because no one had ever smiled at me like that before.

I love him. I fear him. I need him. I resent him. I pull him close. I push him away.

And I have a feeling that it has nothing to do with him and everything to do with me.

“You can stay,” Thomas says, rising to his feet. “Rest as long as you’d like. I’ll go down, start dinner. Grilled cheese, tomato soup, sound good?”

I nod, not trusting myself to speak.

“We’ll get through this,” he says. Reassuring me? Reassuring himself? Maybe it’s all the same. My husband leaves the room.

I wait until I hear his footsteps descend all the way down the stairs, followed by an echo from the kitchen below. Then, and only then, do I roll gingerly onto my side and pull the envelope from my back. My fingers are shaking. I set the small parcel on the bed, noting the way the edges are yellow, the paper darkened in places from old stains, perhaps the oil from a workingman’s fingerprints.