“Feckin’ bollocks.” I drop my phone on my desk and rest my pounding forehead on my arms as I try to work out what the fuck I’m supposed to do.

After that first night we met, I tried to push away every thought of Lark. I never looked into her. Never hunted her down. Though I spent until dawn searching for her once I realized she’d escaped from my car, shame had stopped me from trying to find her beyond that day. I didn’t even realize she was related to Damian Covaci until Leander ripped a strip off me for ruining the contract. I didn’t want to care about Lark Montague. But every moment that passes seems to upend my ideas of the woman I thought I married. And lately, it feels like I haven’t looked into Lark because I’m afraid of what I’ll find.

But I think she needs help. It feels like I’m the only one who can see it. And I’m at a total feckin’ loss at how to do it.

Since I moved in two nights ago, Lark has barely slept. The first night when I woke in the morning, she was still in that chair that faces the windows, headphones on, guitar in her grip. She was asleep, but it seemed restless. When I tried to move the guitar off her lap, she woke with a vicious glare, then padded off to her room without a single word. Last night, she didn’t appear in the living room, but the light stayed on under her door. Sometimes her voice followed it as she sang or hummed. She’s spent the last two days running around, only settling long enough to play a few minutes of a movie, something with Keanu Reeves, but she turned it off with a muttered “Constantine” when I asked the name of it. Otherwise, she’s either heading to Shoreview, where her aunt has just been moved and where she’ll start a new job as a music therapist next week, or taking her dog out, or cleaning with a precision that borders on obsession, or rehearsing with a band she’s supporting. I can already tell she’s exhausted.

I might not know her well, but she doesn’t seem the same since that experience in the elevator. And I need to know why.

Also, I am now unequivocally sure that I am an even bigger dickhead than I ever imagined.

The image of Lark sitting in the trunk of my car replays on a vivid loop in my mind. There was fear in her eyes. Determination too. Though they welled with tears, she blinked them away. She begged.

And I pushed her down and closed the lid.

“Feckin’ eejit,” I mutter, barely aware that I’ve said it out loud.

If Lark and I are going to figure out what the hell is going on and get what we both want out of this marriage, we’re going to have to work together. And we can’t do that if she’s falling apart at the seams. If I want to figure Lark out, I’m going to have to do it through her, not around her. And I’m way out of my feckin’ depth.

I’ve done a lot of dodgy shit in my life. Life has worn down most of my emotions to little more than smooth and polished stone. But every once in a while, I find a long-neglected feeling that cuts like broken glass. Such as, for example, the intense discomfort of the realization that I need to ask my sister-in-law for help.

I pick up my phone and start a new text to Sloane.

Eyeball spider lady, I humbly request a truce.

Didn’t I just tell you to pick up a fucking book?

Christ Jesus. You are so acerbic.

Thank you. What the fuck do you want now?

Are you and Rowan free for lunch today at B&B? I want to invite Lark, but maybe she’ll be more comfortable if you’re there.

There’s a long pause before the three dots start dancing on my screen.

OMFG I KNEW THERE WAS A GOOEY CENTER IN THERE SOMEWHERE

YES WE WILL BE THERE. Rowan is off at 2pm, let me know if that works.

You’re still an asshat though. Just so we’re clear.

I try not to smile, but it happens anyway.

I need a few deep breaths before I manage to type out my next message. It takes me a surprisingly long time to come up with:

Hey.

At first I think she’s not going to respond, and I’m almost about to tap out a second message when Lark’s reply comes through.

What’s wrong?

My brows feel too tight as I stare down at the phone in my hands.

Nothing … I just wanted to see if you’d like to come for lunch at B&B at 2pm? Rowan and Sloane will be there.

I can give you a lift. Or we could meet there if you want. You have a break then, yeah?

The dots of Lark’s reply flicker at the bottom of my screen. They stop. They start again. They stop another time and finally, her message comes through.

Okay. I’ll meet you there.

My heart claws its way up my chest, resurrected from where it seems to have fallen into my guts.

Okay.

I stare at my screen even after it goes black. Though my pulse starts to slow to a normal rhythm, the empty space between each beat still aches with a feeling I can’t quite name. A disquiet that surges in my blood as I count down the hours between now and when I’ll see her next.

My morning at the shop passes slowly. I leave early for the restaurant, and when I walk through the door, she’s already sitting at the booth with my brother and sister-in-law. The wary smile she casts my way sparks an unexpected hope in my chest, one I didn’t ask for. Yet somehow, it’s not enough.

Lark is effervescent with Rowan and Sloane, and if I didn’t know otherwise, I’d think she was as well-rested and happy as my brother and his wife. She laughs and teases and smacks a gold star sticker on Sloane’s dimple when she makes a joke I don’t get about cookies-and-cream ice cream that drains the color from Rowan’s face. And maybe they’re too busy trying to figure out the status of our “weird ass marriage,” with their occasional prying question or scrutinous look. But I can see what they don’t notice. The way Lark’s smile falters when she thinks no one is watching. The way she presses two fingers to her temple before she digs an ibuprofen out of her giant bag. The yawn she hides in a fist. Lark is exhausted, operating on caffeine and sheer determination to keep her mask from slipping.

The longer it goes on, the more I regret asking her to this feckin’ lunch. She could have tried to catch a kip. Maybe she could have curled up with Bentley on the couch in the sun. I just want to get her home. She won’t care about trying so hard if it’s just the two of us. Out in the world, it’s like she needs to be everything to everyone, with nothing left for herself at the end of the day.

But it seems inescapable, even from the people who love her.

“I saw the first posters for your gig at Amigos,” Sloane says, and I know by the way Lark smiles and nods that she hasn’t shared what a drain it’s been trying to boost up the band she’s playing with. She’s only mentioned the show to me in passing, as though it’s no big deal, but I can see the effect it has on her when she has to rearrange her schedule to fit in everything, from social media posts to rehearsals for their upcoming gig. It’s yet another favor for a friend who likely doesn’t appreciate the effort she’s putting in. “I’m sorry I won’t be able to make it, I’ll be away that week for a meeting.”

“Where are you off to this time?”

“Singapore. The client is a pain in the ass, but worth it for the trip. I’m going to build in an extra day for some sightseeing.”

“That’s amazing, Sloaney.” Though Lark’s smile is genuine and warm, I still find myself shifting in my seat, eager to suggest she tag along even though I know she never would. No matter how hard I remind myself it’s none of my feckin’ business, and I shouldn’t care, and it’s better for me to just stay away, it doesn’t work.

As if sensing my unease, Sloane zeroes in on me with the precision of a falcon diving for its unsuspecting prey. “You’re going, right, Lachlan? I need photos. I never miss a show when we’re in the same town.”

Beyond the mundane scheduling conversations and minimal details, Lark and I haven’t talked about the show. She hasn’t invited me. I don’t know if she’s as uncomfortable as I am about Sloane’s question, but I don’t dare glance her way to find out.