Adison’s POV
Jake's two weeks in Texas extend to three, and I pretend the additional distance doesn't sting.
"The nonprofit partners want to meet in person," he explains over video call, Elijah squirming in my lap while I try to keep my expression neutral. "And the preliminary budgets need revision before I can submit. The timeline's accelerating faster than we expected."
"That's wonderful." I mean it. I do. "You should stay as long as you need."
Understanding why he needs to be there doesn't make the loneliness smaller. It just gives loneliness a rational shape—something I can examine without feeling entitled to resent it.
Elijah grabs for the phone screen, fascinated by his father's pixelated face. Seven months old now, pulling himself up on furniture with determined concentration, babbling sounds that almost form words. Every milestone feels incomplete without Jake there to witness it in person.
"Da," Elijah says—or something close to it—and Jake's expression cracks open with longing so raw I have to look away.
"Did he just—"
"He's been practicing." I angle the phone so Jake can see Elijah's face better. "Show Daddy again, baby. Da-da."
"Da-ba-da," Elijah offers, then shoves his fist in his mouth and loses interest entirely.
Jake laughs, but the sound carries an edge. "I'm missing everything."
"You're not." The lie comes automatically, protective. "I'm sending you videos constantly. You're seeing it all."
"Seeing isn't the same as being there."
No. It's not.
I send videos constantly: Elijah's first successful stand, gripping the coffee table with white-knuckled determination. His delighted shriek when the nanny plays peekaboo, laughter so pure it makes my chest ache. The way his face lights up during our video calls when he recognizes his father's voice—reaching for the screen like he could climb through it if he tried hard enough.
Jake watches everything with hungry attention and thanks me in ways that carry guilt I didn't ask him to feel.
"You don't have to apologize," I tell him after the third grateful text in one day. "This was the plan. This is what we agreed to."
"Agreeing to something and living inside it are different things."
He's not wrong.
Wednesday evening, I sit in the nursery after putting Elijah down, letting myself feel the weight of what we're building. The rocking chair still holds the imprint of Jake's body from the nights he spent here before Texas called him back. The mobile above the crib casts shadows that move like breathing.
A marriage that spans a thousand miles. A partnership that requires trust instead of proximity. A life that honors who we both are even when honoring means aching for presence the architecture can't provide.
My phone rings. Jake's name on the screen, and I answer before the second ring.
"Hey." His voice fills the darkness with warmth I didn't realize I needed. "Elijah down?"
"Just now. He fought it tonight. Teething, I think."
"Poor guy." A pause, and I hear Texas insects singing in the background. "I wish I was there to help."
"I know." I lean back in the rocking chair, letting it sway gently. "Tell me about your day. Distract me from the fact that our bed feels enormous without you."
He laughs softly, and the sound eases something tight in my chest. "The barn renovation estimates came in. Higher than projected, but manageable. Tommy found a contractor who specializes in agricultural structures—says the guy owes him a favor from a horse deal gone sideways."
"I'm not going to ask."
"Probably wise." I hear him shifting, settling into wherever he's sitting. "The scholarship fund structure is taking shape. I've been designing tiers—full ride for kids from the hardest backgrounds, partial support for families who can contribute something. The nonprofits I've been talking to are enthusiastic. They've got waiting lists of children who need exactly this."
"How many for the first summer?"
"Twenty, if the funding holds. Maybe twenty-five if the second corporate sponsor comes through." His voice carries something I haven't heard in months—not just hope, but purpose. "These kids, Adison. They've never seen a sky without light pollution. Never touched an animal larger than a dog. Never learned that their hands can build something real."
"You're going to change their lives."
"I'm going to try." A beat of silence. "Tell me about your day. I need to hear your voice more than I need to talk about budgets."
I smile despite the ache. "Elijah pulled himself up on the ottoman three times today. Fell down twice, cried once, tried again immediately. He's stubborn."
"Gets that from his mother."
"Probably." I switch the phone to my other ear. "The board meeting went well. Gideon tried his usual posturing, but I shut him down before he could build momentum. Victoria was conspicuously quiet—I think she's finally accepted that fighting me is more exhausting than cooperating."
"That's my girl." Pride warms his voice. "What else?"
"The quarterly projections exceeded expectations. Zachary's handling the Henderson account expansion, which frees me to focus on the nonprofit partnerships I've been cultivating." I pause, letting honesty surface. "And I miss you. The bed feels wrong without you in it. I keep reaching for you at three a.m. and finding cold sheets."
"I know." His voice drops, rougher. "I reach for you too. Wake up confused when you're not there."
The distance stretches between us, palpable even through the phone. A thousand miles of highway and farmland and everything that separates his world from mine.
"We're going to figure this out," I say, because one of us has to believe it out loud.
"We already are." He sounds certain in a way I can't quite match. "This is figuring it out. Video calls and missing each other and choosing this anyway. That's what marriage looks like when two people refuse to shrink."
"When did you get so sage?"
"Somewhere between the barn estimates and realizing that loving you doesn't require being in the same room. It just requires being in the same direction."
My eyes burn. I blame exhaustion, hormones, the particular vulnerability of sitting in a dark nursery missing my husband.
"Come home soon," I whisper.
"Soon," he promises. "Another week. Maybe less if the contractor meeting goes well."
"I'll hold you to that."
We talk until exhaustion wins—about nothing important, about everything that matters. Elijah's sleeping sounds through the baby monitor. Texas crickets sing through Jake's phone. The distance doesn't dissolve, but it becomes something we're holding together instead of something holding us apart.
"Goodnight," I finally say, when words stop coming.
"Goodnight, sweetheart. Kiss Elijah for me."
"Always."
The call ends, and the nursery settles back into silence. I sit in the rocking chair a moment longer, letting the quiet hold me.
This is what we're building. A life that spans geography. A love that doesn't require sharing the same air.
It's harder than I expected.
It's also exactly what I signed up for when I married a man who carries Texas in his bones.
I check on Elijah one more time—peaceful, thumb finding his mouth in sleep—and walk to the bedroom that feels too large without Jake in it.
Tomorrow I'll be strong again. Tonight, I let myself miss him without apology.