Our little jaunt was not that long, just ten minutes, since the doctor’s office is only a mere ten minutes away from our house on foot. The walk was quiet, though I could feel the tension between us. Edward’s usual chatter was absent, his silence only making my worry grow. I felt a knot in my stomach, a dull ache I couldn’t shake.

A minute or so into the walk, I couldn’t keep the questions in any longer. “Well? What did the doctor say?” I asked, glancing up at him.

Edward sighed, a deep, resigned sound. “He doesn’t exactly know what I have, but he suspects I have diabetes, or prediabetes. Though, he did say it’s more likely I have diabetes, since prediabetes shows hardly any symptoms.”

I clenched his hand even harder, feeling genuinely worried. “What did he say to do? What can we do?”

“Oh, he said something about eating healthier—fruits and vegetables, nuts. He also said that I should be more active so I can use up more of my sugar. He mentioned that he can’t actually check me right now since I need to schedule another appointment. But, he said that if my symptoms go away within five days of doing what he recommended, then I won’t need to get a test.”

“He said he couldn’t? Or are you making this up? That doesn’t sound like something a good, responsible doctor would say.”

Edward seemed slightly taken aback by my sharp response but shrugged, looking almost nonchalant about it. “Oh, you catch onto everything. He would’ve liked to do a test, but I refused. But the part about my symptoms going away within five days is true.”

“Edward! You ought to know better than this! You should’ve taken a test. You do such stupid things sometimes. I should’ve stayed in the room with you!” I condemned him, pulling my hand away from his and then slapping the top of his hand. His hand recoiled, a small sting no doubt, but it made my point. That was what he got for being so careless.

“I promise to get a test done if I don’t feel better within five days. Hell, I’ll even persuade Dr. Corbett to let you stay in the room while he does the test,” Edward replied, his tone softening as he looked at me, his expression apologetic.

“Good,” I sniffed, crossing my arms as I turned away, giving him the silent treatment. He deserved it. We continued walking, the silence between us palpable. I couldn’t shake my frustration. It wasn’t just about the test, it was about how often he ignored his health. He acted like everything could be fixed with little to no effort, and I hated it. He needed to take better care of himself, and every time he didn’t, it felt like he was ignoring me, too.

Now we’re home, and I’m almost done making a salad for the both of us. For the dressing, I put in some olive oil and lemon juice, giving it that refreshing summer taste. I set the wooden salad bowl in the middle of the table, placing the plates opposite from each other. I make sure the napkins and utensils are neatly placed next to the plates, and then I sit down. I get myself some salad before Edward even has a chance to.

“Why are you being mean to me?” Edward’s voice is hesitant as he finally speaks up.

I glance up at him briefly while I prepare my plate. “Because you disappointed me. And no, this is not me being mean. This is me being disappointed. I act worse when I’m mean. It’s a good thing you haven’t gotten to experience that just yet.”

Edward says nothing to that. He knows I’m right. Instead, he silently waits for me to be done getting my salad. When I pass him the salad fork and spoon, he quietly mutters, “Thank you.”

We eat together in silence, the sound of utensils clinking softly against our plates. I don’t look at him. I can’t. I’m genuinely disappointed and angry at him. The way he takes his health so lightly—it frustrates me. He won’t listen to reason. He doesn’t take his own well being seriously, and I have to be the one who reminds him. I wish he’d put himself first for once. He always worries about other things—his work, his family, me—but never himself. I’ve tried to tell him this before, but nothing seems to stick.

While eating, I look at the way Edward eats his salad. Sounds strange, I know, but the way he eats is rather…peculiar. He carefully places his little piece of salad onto his fork and pats it down, almost like he’s arranging it for no reason that I can understand. Maybe he’s trying to make it stay in place? It’s hard to say. He does this for every bite, yet he doesn’t seem to think twice about it. After that, he puts the salad in his mouth and eats it as he always does, but he continues to pile the rest of the salad into a neat little heap in the center of his plate. It’s as if the rest of his meal doesn’t exist until he’s ready for it. And not to mention, he cuts everything into small pieces right before he starts eating, despite the fact that I’ve already cut the vegetables up into eating-sized pieces. He always does this—turning manageable pieces into smaller ones, even though the chunks I’ve prepared are already small enough to eat.

I’ve asked him about his strange eating habits before. Each time, he gets mildly embarrassed, and his cheeks turn a salmon color. He seems almost defensive when I bring it up, and I can’t help but feel bad. He always responds with, “Why do you ask? Is there something wrong with it?” That always puts me on edge, and I end up feeling guilty for asking in the first place. I’ve stopped asking, but the curiosity still nags at me. He could never come up with a good explanation, and the more I think about it, the stranger it becomes. But I never press the issue.

“I’m sorry,” Edward says, breaking the silence as we finish our meal. He stands up, the chair scraping softly as he does so. I don’t respond to his apology, still upset. He moves to help me clean everything up, but again, there’s no conversation between us. We move in a quiet rhythm, gathering plates, wiping the table, and putting things away. The air between us is thick with unspoken tension.

“I’m heading over to Margaret’s for a bit. You think you’re good here?” I ask when the task is done, standing by the front door, my hand on the keys.

Edward blinks at me a few times, looking a bit confused, or maybe annoyed. I can’t quite pinpoint the emotion. “Okay,” he says at last, his voice flat as he heads to the living room. I see him pull out his pipe and newspaper, but I can’t stop myself from rolling my eyes.

If there’s one thing I absolutely cannot stand about Edward, it’s that he smokes. It’s something he promised me he’d quit during our honeymoon, but here he is again, smoking his pipe. It irritates me, but I don’t say anything. There’s nothing to say. He never keeps his promises, especially the ones that matter the most.

I grab the keys, which are hanging right next to the front door, and step out, locking the door behind me. I pull my coat tight around me, bracing myself for the cold evening air. Time for my little trek through the woods to Margaret’s house. I only hope the walk will give me some peace of mind, a break from the weight of my worries.