The Last Supper at Olive Garden

The breadstick basket sat between them like a peace treaty neither had signed. Marcus stared at his iPhone, thumb scrolling through emails that couldn't possibly matter more than the woman sitting across from him. Elena watched the way his screen light caught his wedding ring, flashing little announcements of messages from someone named Sarah.

"You're a zombie," she said, not loud enough to carry beyond their booth. "You died three months ago and nobody told me."

Marcus didn't look up. "That's bullshit, El. I'm working."

"Bull." She let the word sit there. "You're distant, you're angry, you're sleeping in the guest room. And now you're getting texts at 8 PM on a Friday that make you smile like that."

He finally pocketed the phone. Their dinner arrived—chicken alfredo for him, eggplant parm for her. The waitress had那种 bright, practiced cheer that made Elena want to scream.

"I found the bottle," Elena said quietly. "The vitamins. The ones the doctor prescribed for 'stress.'" She made air quotes. "Except the bottle was labeled Xanax, and your name was on it, and you've been refilling it since October."

Marcus's fork paused halfway to his mouth. "It's not what you think."

"Then tell me what it is. Because from where I'm sitting, you're either having a breakdown or an affair, and I honestly don't know which scares me more."

He set down the fork. The restaurant noise swelled around them—laughter, clinking silverware, some child's delighted shriek. A bull in a china shop, that was them. Always had been. Too passionate, too stubborn, too ready to break things rather than figure out how not to.

"I lost my job," Marcus said.

Elena blinked. "What?"

"Three months ago. The startup folded. I've been going to a coworking space every day, sending fake emails, pretending. I couldn't tell you. You were so proud when I got that position." His voice cracked. "I've been living off savings, applying for jobs, getting rejected. The Xanax is for panic attacks in parking lots before interviews."

Elena stared at him. Really looked. The dark circles, the weight loss, the way his hands shook slightly when he wasn't holding something.

"Sarah," she said. "Is she—"

"My career coach. She's sixty, Elena. She helps me prep for interviews."

Something in her chest loosened, something else tightened. The relief was there, but so was the betrayal—not of their marriage, but of their partnership. Of the promise that they'd carry the hard things together.

"You idiot," she whispered. "You absolute bullheaded idiot."

"I know."

She reached across the table and took his hand. His palm was sweating.

"We're going to finish this dinner," she said. "Then we're going home, and you're going to tell me everything. And Marcus? No more secrets. Not even the ones you think are protecting me."

He squeezed her hand back. For the first time in months, he really looked at her—really saw her. The zombie opened his eyes and recognized his own life.

"Okay," he said. "Okay."