My hands shake as I rifle through the closet, fingers fumbling over hangers that used to hold her clothes. The empty spaces between my shirts are hollow reminders of everything she took when she left. Everything except me.
I grab the first sweater I touch, a faded navy pullover from college that's soft from too many washes. It'll swallow her whole, but that's the point. I need something to cover those tattoos, each one a monument to the life she chose instead of ours.
When I step back into the living room, Summer's standing at the kitchen table, divorce papers clutched in her trembling hands. Her shoulders look so small in that tight black top, the spade tattoos across her chest.
"You look cold," I say, holding out the sweater. My voice sounds steadier than I feel.
She takes it with shaking fingers but doesn't put it on. Instead, her eyes stay fixed on the papers, tears threatening to spill over again.
"Divorce?" The word comes out like she's never heard it before, like I've handed her something in a foreign language. Her bottom lip trembles, and for a split second, I see the Summer I married, vulnerable, uncertain, afraid of losing me.
"We hadn't spoken in over a year," I say, my voice barely above a whisper. "I just thought..."
"But you won't now, right?" Summer interrupts, her words rushing together. "You said you'll take me back."
I stare at her, unable to find the right response. All those nights I'd imagined her return, practiced what I'd say, how I'd stay strong. But none of those rehearsed speeches feel right anymore.
Without warning, her face transforms with a smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes. She grips the divorce papers tight, then tears them in half with a single violent motion. The ripping sound fills the apartment as she continues shredding them into smaller and smaller pieces, her movements growing more frantic with each tear.
"There," she says, tossing the confetti-like remains over her shoulder. The paper scraps flutter to the floor behind her like strange snow. "All gone."
Her gaze finally lands on the sweater still clutched in her hands. She pulls it over her head in one fluid motion, the oversized fabric enveloping her small frame. The navy blue material swallows her, hiding those spade tattoos and the "BBC" on her arm.
"Do I look better?" she asks, smoothing the fabric down with trembling hands.
"Yeah," I nod, not trusting myself with more words. The sight of her in my clothes again makes my chest ache with a complicated mixture of longing and dread.
She smiles again, but it's wrong somehow, too wide, too desperate. Her eyes remain empty, like she's trying to read my face for cues, terrified of making a wrong move. She looks like someone performing a role she once knew by heart but has now forgotten half the lines.
Her attention shifts suddenly, catching sight of the chocolate cake smeared across the wall and the shattered plate on the floor. A high-pitched laugh bursts from her lips, startling us both.
"Oh no, did you drop a cake, Scott?" She walks toward the mess, still laughing in that unnatural way. "That's okay. I'll clean it up."
Before I can stop her, she's on her knees, picking up ceramic shards with her bare hands. It's surreal watching her gather broken pieces while wearing my sweater, like some twisted version of our old life together.
"Summer, stop. You'll cut yourself." I move toward her, but freeze when I see her shoulders tense at my approach.
"I don't mind," she says, voice suddenly small. "I want to help. I need to be useful to you."
The words hit me like a punch. What the hell happened to her?
"Let me get the dustpan," I say, reaching for the kitchen drawer where we keep cleaning supplies, where we kept them, when there was still a "we" in this apartment.
I crouch down beside her, keeping a careful distance. Her hands are still gathering shards, methodical and desperate.
"Summer," I say softly. "I imagine you've got a lot going on in your head right now, but you're safe here, okay? I'm not throwing you out. You don't need to..." I gesture at the mess, "...earn your place or something."
She whips her head toward me, eyes wide and almost feverish.
"You said you'd take me back," she says, voice rising slightly. "So of course you won't throw me out."
Something twists in my chest. This isn't the confident woman who left me. This is someone who's been broken and poorly put back together.
I set the dustpan down and reach out slowly, like I might for a frightened animal. When she doesn't flinch away, I rest my hand on her back, feeling the sharp ridge of her spine through my sweater.
"Come here," I murmur, pulling her into an awkward hug. "Shhhh, you're safe, okay? You're safe here."
The effect is immediate. She melts against me, her body going almost limp, face pressed into my shoulder. Her breathing slows, and for a moment, we're just two people holding each other in a kitchen full of broken things.
"How about I take you to bed so you can…" I begin.
"So we can make love?" she interrupts, pulling back to look at me with a desperate kind of hope.
The question hits me like cold water. I just wanted her to get some rest. "No," I say, more firmly than I intended. Her face falls instantly. "I'm sorry, Summer. I'm definitely not ready for something like that."
Her hands suddenly fly to my collar, gripping it with surprising strength. The desperation in her eyes makes my stomach clench.
"Why not?" she demands, voice cracking. "I'm so much better now than I used to be." Her words turn softer, almost seductive, despite the tremor in her voice. "I bet I could make you cum in no time at all. Even faster than before."
The crude words sound wrong coming from her mouth, like she's reciting lines someone else taught her. I gently pry her fingers from my shirt, holding her hands between us.
"Honestly, Summer, I just don't feel... connected right now," I say, choosing my words carefully. "And I don't want to do anything at all until we get you tested."
The moment the words leave my mouth, I see it, heartbreak washing over her face like a physical blow. Her eyes widen, lips parting in silent understanding of what I'm implying.
"Please," she whispers, the single word carrying the weight of everything between us. "Please, Scott."
"I'm sorry," I say, meaning it more than she could know. "You can have the bed tonight. I'll take the couch."
Her face contorts, panic replacing the hurt. She lunges forward, grabbing my collar again with both hands, this time with such force I feel the fabric strain against my neck.
"No!" she screams, the sound raw and primal. "Please, no! I need you next to me! I need to be with you!"
Her eyes are wild, unfocused, like she's staring at something beyond me, some horror only she can see. Her entire body trembles against mine.
"Okay, okay," I say quickly, wrapping my arms around her to steady her. "I'll stay with you. We'll just sleep, alright? Just sleep."
She collapses against my chest, sobbing with relief. "Thank you, thank you, thank you," she chants between breaths.
I guide her toward the bedroom, one arm around her shoulders, feeling like I'm leading a sleepwalker. The familiar weight of her against my side is both comforting and terrifying. This broken version of Summer is still my wife, still the woman I've loved for over a decade, but there's something else there too, something damaged and desperate that I don't recognize.
The bedroom is exactly as I left it this morning, bed unmade, a book splayed open on the nightstand. Summer pauses at the threshold, her breathing quickening.
"Your side is still the same," I tell her, gesturing to the left side of the bed. "I never... I never got used to sleeping in the middle."
She nods, a small, grateful smile flickering across her face. It's the most genuine expression I've seen since she arrived. She sits on the edge of the mattress, hands smoothing over the comforter like she's reacquainting herself with an old friend.
I remember the cake smashed against the kitchen wall, the fragments of ceramic scattered across the floor. I should clean it up before it dries and becomes impossible to remove.
"I need to take care of that mess in the kitchen," I say, standing up slowly. "The frosting will stain if I leave it overnight."
Summer's hand shoots out, grabbing my wrist with surprising strength. "No, Scott, please." Her voice cracks, desperate and thin. "Don't leave me alone."
"It's just for a few minutes," I try to explain, but her grip only tightens, fingernails digging half-moons into my skin.
"I'll clean it tomorrow morning," she promises, eyes wide and glistening. "First thing, I swear. I'll make everything spotless."
"The chocolate will set into the paint," I argue weakly, already feeling my resolve crumbling under the weight of her panic. "It'll be harder to…"
"Please." The word comes out as a sob, tears spilling over and tracking fresh lines through what remains of her makeup. "I can't be alone right now. I just... I can't."
Something in her expression makes my stomach twist.
I sigh, feeling the fight drain out of me.
"Okay."