“We’re living way above our means.”

My relief is replaced by a sharp twinge of guilt. He’s seen my credit card statements, then. I was hoping to hide them for another week or so. “I know. I’m sorry.”

“We’re killing ourselves, Taylor.”

My guilt deepens, the twinge turning to a flood of shame. I’ve had trouble with spending for years. I’m compulsive about it. I buy too much and then hide the bags in my closet, vowing to return everything, and sometimes I do and other times I just go buy some more. I don’t even like half the stuff I buy. “I’ll stop. I promise.”

He doesn’t say anything, and my insides churn. Nathan knows me better than anyone. Nathan knows the truth. I might look great on the outside, but on the inside I’m a disaster. Obsessive-compulsive, control freak. I shop too much. Eat too much. Work too much. Work out too much. “Nathan,” I whisper.

I can feel his shrug.

“Nathan, what’s wrong?”

He takes a long time to answer. Finally: “I’m worried.”

“About what?” I ask in a small voice.

His hand stills on my back. “Everything.”

“You’re just tired, Nathan. You’re working too hard. This is why I wanted to get away. You need a break. You deserve a vacation.” But even as I talk, I can feel him pulling away, physically, emotionally. After a bit I run out of words, and I lie next to him in the dark, wondering why I can’t comfort him. Wondering what’s happening to us.

“I have full confidence in you,” I say after a moment, trying again. “Everything’s going to be all right.”

He says nothing.

I nestle closer, curve my body around his, and hold him as tightly as I can. “It is, Nathan.”

Several minutes pass, and he doesn’t relax.