Scottsdale in June, seven in the evening, and the heat presses against the west windows of the dining room the way it has every summer of your marriage. The table is set for three, and August Galloway sits at the head of it with his sleeves rolled to the elbow, his left hand flat over the swell of Sloane's belly while she talks about the contractor and the paint for the nursery.

Sloane is seven months along and easy with it. She reaches across you for the water pitcher, pours a glass you didn't ask for, and says, "I've got this," the way she says it now every time she takes over another corner of the house that used to be yours. August doesn't correct her. He hasn't corrected her in a year.

You poke at your dinner. The silence sits on the table like the second place setting, the one he still lays for you every night whether or not you come down.

"Sloane's appointment is at seven-thirty," August says, and it is the flat register he saves for you now, no warmth in it. "The midwife wants me there." He doesn't glance your way. His hand hasn't moved from her belly. "I won't be sleeping with you tonight."

He waits a breath, then picks up his knife and cuts Sloane's steak into small, even pieces — the way he used to cut yours, back when the two of you were the whole table. Sloane smiles at you over her water glass, one hand resting where his is.

"Eat," August says, not looking up. "Then I'll walk you through the escrow in the study. The buyers want to close Friday."

He still hasn't looked at you. He's waiting.