Chapter 5 - Walking Beside Him
On the walk back toward the bus shelter, Ethan finally explained the missing box.
We'd moved out of Apartment 2C only a few weeks after he placed the order. The courier delivered the restored shoes to Halstead Street, found strangers living there, and stamped the package UNDELIVERABLE. Years later, the local depot that had been holding it shut its doors, and whatever forgotten inventory was still sitting in the back got folded into a liquidation auction — the same auction chain our mystery crate came from.
"Is that why you picked the local warehouse listing?" I asked. "Some part of you knew?"
Ethan shook his head. "No. It was three dollars cheaper on shipping. That's the whole reason. I had no idea this box still existed anywhere in the world."
He'd assumed the shoes were long gone. And once they were gone, he'd done the exact thing he'd been doing for months by then. He found another reason not to tell me.
"That's insane," I said.
"I know."
"You were waiting on a pair of shoes to tell your own wife you'd lost your job?"
"No." He watched the sidewalk go by under his feet. "I needed an excuse to start the conversation. The shoes were the excuse. And when they never showed up, losing the excuse just became one more excuse."
We reached the bus shelter and sat down on the cold bench again, in the same spots.
"What did you think would actually happen," I asked, "if you'd told me back then?"
"You would have worried."
"Yes. I would have."
He looked over at me, a little surprised, like he'd expected me to agree that worrying was the whole disaster.
"Ethan. I would have worried with you. On this bench. With a second sandwich."
For the first time all night, he didn't have anything to say back.
We sat there for a while. Then I asked him the question I was almost afraid to.
"Is there anything you're scared to tell me right now? Tonight?"
"No."
I just looked at him.
He shut his eyes for a second. Then he opened them and said it.
"My department's being reorganized. Again."
I waited.
"My job's probably safe. Probably. But there's talk of cuts. Nobody knows yet."
"How long have you known there was talk?"
"A week."
I almost laughed. "Fifteen years, and we're still doing this."
"I'm trying not to."
"Then try out loud. Right now."
That got a small, tired smile out of him. And then he actually did it. He told me he was scared of starting over at forty-six. Scared of sitting across a table from some kid interviewer. Scared that one bad meeting on a Tuesday could rearrange our entire life the way it had the last time.
I didn't fix any of it. I couldn't. I just sat there and listened until he ran out of words.
Later we stopped at a diner near the old neighborhood called The Blue Spoon. Halfway through a plate of fries, Ethan's phone buzzed on the table. He glanced at the screen.
Work email.
His old reflex kicked in instantly — he flipped the phone facedown.
Then he stopped. Looked at me. Turned it back over.
"It's about the restructuring."
"Okay."
He opened it. Read it. Then he slid the phone into the middle of the table and turned it so we could both see the screen.
Nothing had been decided yet. It was just an update.
For one night, that was enough.
Outside, Ethan sat on the curb and worked his feet into the restored black shoes. He stood up and took a step, and immediately started to limp.
"You okay?" I asked.
"I'm fine."
He took three more steps.
Then he laughed. "Actually, no. These things are terrible."
I held out my arm, and he took it.
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Fifteen years ago, those shoes had carried my husband miles through something he'd decided he had to survive alone.
That night, he finally let someone walk beside him.
