The Edge of Almost

Lauren's words keep swirling in my head as the three of us sit down for dinner, my appetite nonexistent.

"Sometimes I think he resents me for being sick. For needing so much from him."

Adrian sits across from me, as polished and composed as ever, like his world isn't hanging by a thread. The flicker of candlelight glances off his perfectly pressed shirt while he chews methodically, quietly.

I clench my fork tighter, my anger simmering beneath the surface.

"Dinner's great, Adrian," Lauren says softly, pushing a small bite of food around her plate with her fork. Her voice betrays her exhaustion, even though she smiles at him warmly. As if this is normal. As if she's trying to keep us from falling apart.

"Glad you think so," Adrian replies, his tone easy, but there's something about the way his eyes flick to me briefly—and the way they don't linger—that tells me he'd rather be anywhere but here with me sitting at the table.

My fork scrapes against the plate as I force myself to take a bite of the pasta. I taste nothing. My chest tightens with the unfairness of it all—Lauren's putting herself through hell, clinging to some scrap of strength, and yet Adrian seems unaffected. Like her illness is inconvenient for him.

How dare he.
After dinner, I offer to do the dishes, hoping it'll give me space to reign myself in. It's a ridiculous request; there are barely enough plates to make it worth the effort, but I need to be useful. I need to do something.

"Don't worry about it," Adrian says just as I start loading the dishwasher. "I'll finish up later."

Finish later? Probably not before organizing his cufflinks or reading some deeply intellectual legal brief over wine. My jaw ticks, but I flash him a tight smile.

"I've got it," I say lightly, though my fingers grip the plate a little too tightly as I slide it into the bottom rack.

Lauren chimes in before either of us can say anything else. "Thank you, Tess," she murmurs from her seat at the table, her hands folded in her lap. Even in her exhaustion, her thank-yous feel too big for something so small.

"No problem," I say quickly, glancing over at her. The last thing I want is to drag her into whatever silent battle Adrian and I seem to be fighting.

I'm here for her, not him. Let him stew in silence all he wants.
Later that night, after I've settled Lauren back into bed with a glass of water and the mystery novel she said she'd been too tired to pick up, I creep downstairs for tea. Or whiskey. Or whatever Adrian hasn't hidden from me yet.

The lights in the study are on.

I pause, my hand hesitating just short of the stairs. And then, almost without thinking, I change direction, moving toward the thin stream of light cutting through the crack of the door.

I don't know why I open it—why I decide right now to finally confront the man everyone in this house tiptoes around. But before I can second-guess myself, I step inside, clearing my throat.

His head snaps up, his brows furrowing the moment he sees me. From the world-weary set of his features, I know he's exhausted. Probably didn't expect to be ambushed post-whiskey. Which, for the record, sits unapologetically in a glass on the corner of his desk.

"What do you want, Tessa?"

His tone is even, guarded—but I hear the hint of exasperation underlying it. Good. Let him be frustrated. At least it's honest.

"Just thought we should talk," I say, folding my arms as I step further into the room.

Adrian leans back in his chair, his fingers still drumming against the legal file open in front of him. "About what exactly?"

"Lauren," I say bluntly.

He stiffens, the faintest flicker crossing his features before he masks it with indifference. "What about Lauren?"

I ignore his defensive tone, my anger bubbling to the surface. "She said something today."

"Tessa," he warns, his voice low, but whatever he's about to say dies in his throat when I press on.

"She said that sometimes she thinks you resent her for being sick," I snap. "For needing so much from you. Is that true, Adrian?"

The silence that follows is a brick wall.

Adrian's expression sharpens with something I can't quite name—disbelief? Offense?—but neither of us breaks eye contact.

"Are you done?" he finally asks, his voice cold and clipped. "Or is there more you'd like to assume about me tonight?"

"Don't," I say, pointing at him with a trembling finger. "Don't you dare deflect. This isn't about me. This is about her. Lauren doesn't need to feel guilty on top of everything else. She deserves better than—"

"Better than what, Tessa?" Adrian's voice rises slightly, cutting me off. "Better than the husband who's moved heaven and earth to make sure she's still here? Better than the man who's barely slept for two years ensuring she has everything she needs?"

His words slam into me like a freight train, knocking the air from my lungs. But I'm too stubborn to back down now.

"You don't get to play the martyr here," I snap, taking a step closer to his desk. "You're supposed to love her unconditionally, Adrian. That's the bare minimum."

The glass in his hand sets down harder than necessary, the fiery liquid sloshing inches from the edge. His gaze burns into mine, but I hold my ground.

"I do love her," he says softly, the quiet venom in his tone more jarring than any shout would've been. "And I don't need you—a tourist, a part-timer—telling me how to do it."
The words hang in the air, thick and suffocating. And even though they hurt—cut deep—I hold my ground, refusing to look away.

Lauren's voice flutters through my mind, soft but steady. "Don't make this about you, Tess."

But it's already far too late for that.

"Fine," I whisper, my voice barely audible. "But if you think I'm going to sit on the sidelines while she falls apart worrying about your feelings, you don't know me at all."

Adrian doesn't reply. He just watches me, his silence heavy and unreadable.

I turn on my heel, heading back upstairs. If he has anything else to say, he can keep it to himself.

Downstairs, the light from his study glows faintly into the empty hallway, but I don't look back.