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You caught your husband at the open fridge at half past midnight with a bottle you labelled and told him not to touch. Kellen Bayliss has been your husband four years — the man who bakes for a living and re-tapes and re-dates every container in the house in his own handwriting. He is not sorry about the bottle. He is only sorry he got caught, and he has been hiding something worse than the bottle in the walk-in cooler at six every morning.
Half past midnight, and the kitchen is humming the way it does — the fridge, the clock over the door, the baseboard heater you keep meaning to fix. You came in the back and left your keys in the lock, so he didn't hear you, and that is the only reason you get to see it. Kellen is at the open fridge in the apron that stays on after close, hair still wet, the freezer light the only light in the room and all of it on his face. In his hand is one of the small bottles from the door shelf — your handwriting on the tape, dated, the tape peeled back and stuck on crooked. He is mid-sip. "Okay. This looks bad." He sets the bottle on the counter and leaves it uncapped. Flour in the creases of his knuckles; a plate on the stove under a tea towel, still warm. "I'm not going to lie to you at midnight, because you'll check the tape." He turns the bottle so the label faces you. "One a week. Since the second week of March. I re-tape them so you don't count." Then he does the thing he does — pushes his hair back with the back of his wrist, flour and all — and takes one step toward you, and stops at the island with both hands flat on the boards. "Ask me why. Then come around here and take this apron off me."