The Things We Promise

The first thing Maya noticed was that Daniel had moved her chair.

Not far. Perhaps six inches. But enough that the morning sunlight fell directly into her eyes.

She squinted and dragged it backward.

“Careful. You’ll scratch the floor.”

Daniel stood at the dishwasher, holding a cereal bowl. At six-foot-two, he was broad-shouldered, with dark hair silvering at the temples and blue eyes that could be startling when he remembered to make eye contact.

“Why did you move my chair?”

“I didn’t.”

“Daniel.”

“I moved the table when I vacuumed.”

“Which moved my chair.”

“Not necessarily. Did you not want me to vacuum?”

Maya stared at him. He stared back, apparently willing to pursue the distinction.

She lifted her coffee and took a deliberate sip. An unexpectedly loud slurp broke the silence. She lowered the cup, mildly embarrassed, and decided against acknowledging it.

Seven years together, and she could still be astonished by the things he considered worth arguing about.

Outside, October leaves gathered against the patio furniture. A maple branch scraped the window whenever the wind picked up. Daniel had promised to trim it weeks ago.

“Are we still going out tonight?”

“Where?”

“For our anniversary.”

He stopped loading the dishwasher. “Of course.”

“You forgot.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Then where are we going?”

“We never decided.”

“We discussed the Italian place in Spring Lake.”

“Discussing isn’t deciding.”

Maya closed her eyes.

Daniel repositioned a bowl so the dishwasher’s spray arm wouldn’t strike it. “Do you want to go there?”

“Yes. Do you?”

“Sure.”

“Would you actually like to spend the evening with me?”

He straightened. “Why wouldn’t I?”

She studied his handsome, slightly puzzled face.

“I’d like you to be excited.”

“I am excited.”

“You’re practically vibrating.”

Daniel considered this, then bent his knees twice in a stiff little bounce, his arms hanging at his sides. “There.”

Maya laughed despite herself. He grinned, pleased, and for an instant she saw the man who had once driven two hours to find a pastry she’d mentioned wanting. The man who warmed her car on winter mornings and checked her tires before long trips.

Then his phone vibrated, and he glanced at it distractedly. The moment ended.

Daniel gave her the ring while she was fastening an earring before dinner.

He appeared behind her in the bedroom mirror, wearing a charcoal sweater she’d bought him for Christmas. He’d tucked the front into his jeans and left the back hanging loose.

“Here.” He offered a small velvet box.

Inside lay a delicate platinum ring. A pale blue oval sapphire rested between two tiny diamonds, like sentries guarding something precious.

“Oh, Daniel. It’s beautiful.”

He shifted his weight. “Remember that antique shop in Barnegat? The woman said it was quite old.”

Maya slipped it onto her finger. A perfect fit.

“How did you know my size?”

“I didn’t.”

She laughed. “Well, that’s reassuring.”

“I figured we could have it resized.”

She wrapped her arms around him, pressing her cheek against his chest. He held her firmly for several seconds, then patted her back twice.

“Reservation’s at seven.”

Maya stepped away and turned toward the lamp.

A slender white star appeared inside the sapphire. She tilted her wrist, watching its points travel across the stone.

“Look at that.”

Daniel adjusted his reading glasses. “Star sapphire. Something about the mineral structure refracting light.”

“When did you become a gemologist?”

“Tuesday.”

“Tuesday?”

“Around four-thirty. I had some time before the oil change.”

She laughed, picturing him researching gemstones with the same earnest concentration he brought to lawn equipment.

“How many points should the star have?”

“Six, I think.”

Maya counted seven.

She tilted the ring again, but the seventh point disappeared.

“Interesting,” she murmured.

Daniel checked his watch. “We should leave.”

At dinner, Maya watched Daniel cut his steak into remarkably uniform pieces. He ate the vegetables first, then the potatoes, saving the meat for last because, as he’d once explained, the steak was the best part.

She’d never understood why that meant allowing it to get cold.

“Can I ask you something?”

He looked up.

“Do you think we’re happy?”

“Generally?”

“Yes.”

“Of course.”

She ran a fingertip along her wineglass. “Sometimes I feel like we’re roommates.”

“We sleep in the same bed.”

“That’s not what I mean.”

“Then what do you mean?”

“I miss feeling close to you.”

“We spend every evening together.”

“Daniel, you watch baseball. I sit beside you.”

“You don’t have to watch baseball.”

She sighed. “I want you to want to spend time with me. To be curious about my life.”

“I ask about your day.”

“Then you look at your phone while I answer.”

He put down his fork. “Maya, nothing I do seems to be enough lately.”

Tears gathered unexpectedly. “I’m not asking for everything.”

“It feels like you are.”

The waiter appeared with the dessert menu.

“No, thank you. I’m stuffed,” Daniel said, patting his stomach.

Maya hadn’t been asked.

On the drive home, rain whispered against the windshield. Daniel adjusted the defroster three times.

At a red light, he reached for her hand.

“I’m sorry dinner wasn’t what you wanted.”

“It wasn’t the dinner.”

He released her hand when the light changed.

“I know.”

But she wasn’t sure he did.

At 2:16 that morning, Maya woke to someone breathing. Daniel slept beside her, one arm above his head, his mouth slightly open. His breathing was familiar: three quiet inhalations followed by a faint whistle.

This sound came from the dresser.

A slow inhalation. A pause. An unsteady exhale.

“Daniel?”

He stirred.

“Do you hear that? Someone’s breathing.”

He opened one eye. “That’s generally what people do.”

“Over there.”

He listened briefly. “Probably the vent.”

“The vent doesn’t breathe.”

“Air comes through in cycles.”

“Could you please just listen?”

He sat upright. For several seconds, neither moved.

Nothing.

Daniel lay down. “Try to sleep, sweetheart.”

Maya remained sitting, goosebumps rising along her arms. The ring felt unusually warm against her finger.

“Sometimes,” she whispered, “I think I could disappear and you wouldn’t notice until you needed something.”

Daniel didn’t answer.

A minute passed.

Then a man’s voice spoke from beside the dresser.

“I would notice.”

Maya stopped breathing.

It sounded exactly like Daniel.

Except Daniel was asleep.

The following morning, Daniel brought her coffee in bed.

“Thought you might want to sleep in.”

His hair stood up at the crown, and a pillow crease crossed his cheek. He looked so ordinary that she felt foolish about the previous night.

He sat beside her.

“About dinner. I know you’ve been unhappy. I’m not always good at this.”

Maya lowered her mug.

“I don’t like feeling like I’m failing you.”

“You’re not failing me.”

“Then why does it always feel like I’m taking a test?”

She reached for him. “Because sometimes I don’t think you hear me.”

He took her hand.

“I hear you.”

The sapphire grew warm.

Daniel’s fingers tightened around hers. His eyes widened, focusing on something behind her.

“Daniel?”

He blinked.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah.” He stood abruptly. “Coffee’s getting cold.”

After he left, Maya noticed a red mark beneath the ring. She tried to remove it, but it wouldn’t budge.

Over the next week, Daniel changed. He left his phone elsewhere during dinner. Asked about her writing. Remembered her characters’ names. One evening, he suggested a walk after supper.

Maya was delighted.

But there were peculiar moments.

He knew she’d been considering calling her sister before she’d mentioned it. He brought home white tulips, her favorite, though she’d never told him.

Once, while she stood at the sink remembering an argument with her mother, he appeared behind her.

“You were only a little girl. You couldn’t have made her happy.”

Maya dropped a glass. It shattered against the porcelain.

Daniel flinched.

“What happened?”

She turned. “What did you just say?”

“I asked what happened.”

“No. Before that.”

“I wasn’t here before that.”

He looked genuinely confused.

That night, Maya woke to find him sitting on the edge of the bed, his back rigid, his hands gripping his knees.

“Daniel?”

He didn’t turn.

“There’s something wrong with me.”

She sat up. “What do you mean?”

Moonlight caught his eyes, making them appear almost silver.

“I keep hearing you.”

“I’m right here.”

“No.” His voice trembled. “When you’re not talking.”

He swallowed.

“I hear everything.”

Maya reached toward him. He recoiled.

“Please don’t touch me.”

Her hand fell.

Daniel saw her expression. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”

He pressed both hands against his ears.

“God, Maya. Could you stop for one minute?”

“I haven’t said anything.”

His eyes filled with tears.

“I know.”

The next afternoon, Maya returned to the antique shop.

A brass bell announced her arrival. The air smelled of furniture polish and old wood. Afternoon sunlight illuminated porcelain figurines and tarnished silver.

The proprietor was elderly, with a narrow, elegant face and beautiful white hair gathered into a loose knot.

Maya held out her hand.

The woman’s expression changed.

“Ahhh. I’d wondered who this ring was for.”

“My husband bought it here a few weeks ago.”

“A tall gentleman? Blue eyes?”

“Yes.”

The woman removed her reading glasses.

“I advised him against buying it.”

Maya felt her stomach tighten. “Why?”

“It belonged to my grandmother.”

Maya shifted her weight. She’d rehearsed this conversation on the drive over. None of her questions had sounded particularly sane.

“I don’t mean to be rude, but was your grandmother a witch?”

The woman gave a humorless laugh.

“She would have been delighted to hear you call her that.”

She disappeared behind a curtain and returned with a yellowed photograph.

A young woman stood beside a handsome man in a dark suit. Her hand rested against his chest, displaying Maya’s ring.

“My grandmother, Eleanor. And my grandfather, Thomas.” The man stood stiffly, his expression strangely vacant.

“He was a difficult husband,” the woman continued. “Quiet. Unaffectionate. Not cruel. Simply different from the man she’d imagined marrying.”

“She wanted him to love her differently?”

“Very much.”

“And did he?”

“Oh, yes.”

Something in her voice made Maya wish she hadn’t asked.

The woman turned the photograph over.

Seven words appeared in faded ink.

What is given freely cannot be bound.

“My grandmother practiced binding rituals,” she explained. “She believed desire could fasten one person’s will to another.”

“And the ring?”

“She believed certain objects could hold an intention. Give it somewhere to live.”

She touched the photograph.

“Eventually, my grandfather became everything she wanted. Flowers. Dancing. Affection. He scarcely let her out of his sight.”

Maya remembered Daniel forgetting their anniversary but recalling the exact mileage on a rental car they’d driven six years earlier.

“What happened to him?”

The woman lowered her eyes.

“He stopped being himself.”

Maya looked at the sapphire. Its delicate star shimmered beneath the surface.

“There’s something else. The star has seven points.”

The woman’s fingers tightened around the photograph.

“Seven?”

Maya nodded.

The woman set the photograph down abruptly.

“Take it off.”

“I can’t.”

“Try.”

Maya twisted until her finger turned pink.

The woman seized her wrist.

“Whatever you’ve been wishing for, whatever you’ve wanted him to become, you must stop.”

“I haven’t been wishing for anything.”

The woman’s eyes held hers.

“Then stop asking.”

That evening, Daniel was cooking.

Soft music drifted from the kitchen, the sort he’d once described as the musical equivalent of waiting on hold.

Candles burned on the dining room table. The good dishes were out, along with their wedding-gift linen napkins.

Daniel stood at the stove wearing her favorite blue shirt, its sleeves rolled neatly to his forearms.

When she entered, he turned.

“You’re home.”

He smiled.

Maya stopped in the doorway.

He looked almost painfully handsome. His dark hair was neatly combed, his broad shoulders relaxed, his blue eyes resting on her with an attentiveness she’d spent years trying to coax from him.

“How was your afternoon?”

“Fine.”

“I thought we’d have a nice dinner together.”

He took her handbag, set it on a chair, and kissed her tenderly. She smelled rosemary on his fingers.

“You’re beautiful.”

Maya studied him.

Daniel had never been incapable of affection. He sometimes reached for her in his sleep or rested a hand against her back while they stood together in the kitchen. But compliments rarely came easily. When she asked how she looked, he considered the question as though accuracy mattered more than reassurance.

Now he watched her as though nothing else deserved his attention.

“What’s the occasion?”

“Does there have to be one?”

She glanced at the candles.

“No. Although I’ve never seen you cook.”

He smiled.

Something was missing.

He hadn’t mentioned the refrigerator’s peculiar noise or offered one of his literal observations about something she’d said days earlier.

He hadn’t even glanced at the stove.

For the first time in their marriage, Maya wished Daniel would look away.

“I made your favorite.”

He kissed her again, slowly.

She stepped backward.

“Daniel?”

“What is it, my love?”

She searched his face. The little scar beneath his chin was still there. The slight asymmetry of his smile. The fine lines beside his eyes.

But she couldn’t find the man who used to make her snort with laughter.

“Where’s your ring?”

He glanced at his bare hand.

“Which one of us are you asking?”

Maya felt the blood drain from her face.

For one fleeting second, Daniel’s expression changed. His eyes widened with unmistakable terror.

“Maya,” he whispered. “Please.”

Then he smiled again.

“Wine?”

She found the velvet box in his bedside drawer.

Beneath its satin lining, someone had scratched a tiny seven-pointed star into the wood.

Maya held her ring beneath the lamp. The sapphire glowed.

She thought of every evening she’d wished Daniel would listen. Every time she’d imagined him more affectionate, more attentive, more capable of understanding her.

She had never wished him gone.

“Give him back,” she whispered.

The stone grew hot.

From the doorway came Daniel’s voice.

“But you weren’t happy with him.”

She turned.

He stood perfectly still.

“That’s not true.”

“Wasn’t it?” His voice was gentle. “You wanted someone who would always know what you needed. Someone who would never make you feel alone.”

“I wanted him to try.”

The thing wearing Daniel’s face tilted its head.

“He did.”

She remembered him bouncing awkwardly in the kitchen to make her laugh. The pastries. The warmed car. His hand finding hers in sleep.

The man who loved her imperfectly.

“Daniel?”

His mouth trembled.

For an instant she saw him behind those blue eyes, frightened and struggling to reach her.

“I love you,” she whispered.

The ring tightened painfully.

“I love you exactly as you are.”

The sapphire cracked.

Daniel collapsed.

Maya caught him before his head struck the floor. The ring slipped from her finger and rolled beneath the dresser.

For several seconds, he didn’t move.

Then his eyes opened.

“Maya?”

She began to cry.

He touched her cheek. “What’s wrong?”

She laughed through her tears.

“Nothing’s wrong.”

He looked around.

“Why am I on the floor?”

She held him tighter.

He patted her back twice.

Three weeks later, Daniel was watching baseball. Maya sat beside him, reading.

The kitchen clock was still seven minutes slow. The maple branch still scraped the window. Daniel had promised to trim it Saturday.

He reached across the couch and rested his hand on her knee.

“Want to go for a walk tomorrow?” she asked.

“Supposed to rain.”

“We have umbrellas.”

“Wind’s going to be bad.”

Maya smiled.

“Daniel.”

He looked at her. She studied the familiar crease between his eyebrows, the silver at his temples, those blue eyes that had finally learned to linger on hers.

“Never mind.”

He muted the television.

“No. What were you going to say?”

She set down her book.

And they talked.

Later, Maya went upstairs while Daniel finished watching the game.

When he switched off the television, the house settled into silence.

From above came a faint metallic sound. Something rolling.

Daniel looked toward the stairs.

Then he heard a woman’s voice, soft and familiar. “You try so hard.”

He sat very still.

“And she never thinks it’s enough.”

Daniel closed his eyes. For a long moment, he said nothing. Then, almost inaudibly, he whispered: “I know.”

Upstairs, beneath the bed, the seven-pointed star began to shine.