Mark's car hasn't even disappeared around the corner before Emily's hand is on my wrist, guiding me to the couch. Her touch is gentle but insistent, like she's been waiting for this moment since Mark arrived.
"You should rest," she says, her voice honeyed with concern. "That was a lot of excitement for someone with a traumatic head injury."
I don't argue when she pulls me down beside her, then gently guides my head into her lap. Her fingers immediately find my hair.
"Mark has always been a good friend to you," she says, her tone carefully neutral even as her fingers tighten slightly against my scalp.
I stare up at her from this new angle, studying the perfect curve of her jaw, the way her blonde hair catches the light. It's strange to think this gorgeous woman is supposedly my wife when she still feels like a beautiful stranger.
"He seemed scared," I say, watching her face for a reaction.
Emily's fingers pause momentarily in my hair before resuming their gentle stroking. "Mark's always been a nervous person," she says dismissively. "Ever since we were kids."
I don't believe her, but I don't call her out on it either. Instead, I just keep staring, trying to reconcile this polished, intimidating woman with the childhood photos she showed me.
Her lies are strange, they don't feel malicious or cruel. They feel protective, desperate even. Like she's building walls around us, trying to keep something out... or keep me in. There's something almost endearing about how hard she's trying, even when I think I can see right through her.
"What was my job before I quit?" I ask suddenly, watching her face carefully.
Emily's fingers pause in my hair again, just for a heartbeat. "You were a graphic designer for an advertising agency," she says smoothly.
I nod, processing this. "Why did I quit?"
She sighs, looking down at me with what seems like genuine sympathy. "AI basically took your job from you. Those new image generators started doing in seconds what used to take you hours. The industry changed almost overnight."
"So I'm an artist then," I say, feeling a small spark of excitement. At least that's something concrete about myself.
Emily's expression freezes for just a moment. Something flickers behind her eyes, hesitation, uncertainty. She opens her mouth, then closes it again, her fingers now completely still in my hair.
"You... have a very unique artistic vision," she says finally, choosing each word with painful care. "Very... abstract."
"What does that mean?" I ask, frowning. "Unique artistic vision? Abstract?"
Emily's lips press together in a thin line. "You hated art, Charles," she admits finally. "But you still got a graphic design degree in college."
I stare at her, trying to process this. "If I hated it, why would I stick with a degree I couldn't stand?"
Emily's face flickers again, like a TV with bad reception. She looks away, a blush creeping up her neck.
"The same reason I have abs, Charles," she says quietly.
"I don't know what that means," I reply, genuinely confused.
Emily sighs, her fingers absently twirling a strand of my hair. "I once mentioned, just in passing, mind you, that I thought graphic designers were hot."
I stare at her, my mouth hanging slightly open. The revelation feels both absurd and strangely on-brand for whatever our relationship is.
"Wait. You're telling me I made a massive life decision, an entire career path, based on one throwaway comment you made?"
Her cheeks flush that now-familiar pink. "Well, I did too," she counters, her voice defensive yet playful. "I only started working out this much because you once said you loved women with abs and how you just wanted to..." she pauses, her blush deepening, "...lick them all day."
A laugh bursts out of me, surprising us both with its intensity. It hurts my ribs, but I can't stop. The image of Emily, this poised, intimidating lawyer, hitting the gym religiously because of some horny comment I apparently made, is too much.
"So we're both ridiculous," I manage between laughs.
Emily's expression softens as she watches me laugh. There's something vulnerable in her eyes now, a hint of the real person beneath the perfect exterior.
"I guess we are," she admits, her fingers resuming their gentle exploration of my hair. "But that's why we work so well together. We understand each other's brand of crazy."
I reach up, touching her cheek. "I think I'm starting to see that."
The moment of humor passes, and I suddenly remember the empty spot in the garage, the missing car, the job I apparently quit.
"I guess I'll have to find a new job soon," I say, thinking out loud. "Since the graphic design thing didn't work out."
The change in Emily is instant and terrifying. Her face goes completely blank, like someone flipped a switch and turned off all her emotions. The warm green of her eyes dulls to something flat and cold.
"No," she says, the word falling between us like a stone.
"What?" I blink up at her, startled by the abrupt shift.
"Absolutely not," Emily says, her voice eerily calm despite the tension radiating from her body. Her fingers have stopped moving in my hair, now gripping just tight enough to make me aware of it.
"Why not?" I ask, genuinely confused. "I mean, I can't just do nothing forever, right?"
Emily's expression softens slightly, though that unsettling emptiness doesn't quite leave her eyes. She leans down, bringing her face closer to mine.
"Charles, baby, you're still recovering from a brain injury," she explains, her voice gentle but firm. "The doctor said you need rest, not stress."
I frown, trying to remember if the doctor actually said anything about avoiding work. "I don't think he mentioned anything about jobs."
"Trust me," Emily says, stroking my cheek with the back of her hand. "As your wife and as someone with legal expertise in medical cases, I know what's best for your recovery."
Her touch is tender, but there's something possessive in it that makes my skin prickle.
"Besides," she continues, her voice dropping to something more intimate, "why would you want to work when your wife is a successful lawyer? I make more than enough for both of us."
I shift uncomfortably under her gaze. "It's not about the money. It's about having something to do, a purpose."
Emily's smile widens, but it comes off a bit fake. "Your purpose can be here, taking care of our home. Wouldn't it be nice to just focus on that? No deadlines, no office politics, no stress."
The way she phrases it makes it sound reasonable, almost appealing. But there's something in her tone, a desperation beneath the smoothness, that sets off alarm bells in my head.
"I could try volunteering somewhere," I suggest, testing the waters. "Something low-stress but still productive."
Emily's fingers tighten in my hair again, just for a second, before relaxing. "That's still exposure to strangers, potential germs, unknown environments." She sighs dramatically. "After what happened to you, I just can't bear the thought of anything else going wrong."
"I don't want to just sit around this house all day doing nothing," I say, sitting up from her lap. "I need to…"
"Drop it."
Her voice cuts through mine like a knife, sharp and final. The two words hang in the air between us, cold and heavy. Emily's eyes are suddenly dark, her jaw clenched tight enough that I can see a muscle twitching beneath her perfect skin.
"Alright," I mutter, my stomach clenching at her tone. It's more threatening than I've heard from her yet.
Something in my face must register, because Emily's expression suddenly shifts. The hardness melts away, replaced by a smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes. It's practiced, like she's putting on a mask she knows I want to see.
"I'm sorry," she says, reaching for my hand. Her fingers are cool against mine. "I just mean let's drop it... for now. We can address this when your head is feeling a little better."
I nod slowly, not trusting myself to speak. There's something deeply unsettling about how quickly she can switch between emotions, like flipping channels on a TV.
"It's just that I worry," she continues, her thumb tracing circles on my palm. "After everything that's happened, I couldn't bear to lose you again."
"I understand," I say softly, meeting her gaze.
I don't entirely understand, not really, but saying so seems safer than arguing. The look in Emily's eyes when she snapped at me still lingers in my mind, that flash of something cold and possessive that transformed her beautiful face into something almost unrecognizable. It makes me wonder if she’s capable of violence.