The morning after the first anniversary of Helen Cutter's disappearance, Stephen Hart found Nick Cutter sound asleep in his office, head buried in his arms on top of a pile of end-of-term essays that he knew Nick didn't need to have marked and ready to return until the end of next week.
Heart aching, Stephen tossed his coat on a stool by his work table and went to turn the kettle on.
On anniversary number two, Stephen discovered Nick surrounded by Helen's clothes thrown all over the bedroom floor.
Stephen sighed and stood for a moment in the doorway of Nick's room, watching as Nick tossed them out of the wardrobe with the dedication of someone bent on finishing his self-appointed task as fast and with as little thought as humanly possible. Stephen picked up a sweater and folded it, running a hand over the soft brown material before setting it on the bed.
There were empty boxes scattered up and down the hall; he'd wound his way through them while searching for Nick.
"Do you want me to start putting stuff in these boxes?"
"Yes. We'll run it all to a charity shop later."
Stephen grabbed a carton and started packing Helen's things.
The night before the third anniversary, Nick showed up at the door to Stephen's flat with an unopened bottle of Glenlivet and the look of a man planning to wake up the next morning with a dry mouth and a headache bad enough to make all his demons flee in the face of it.
Stephen was glad he'd already made arrangements to have someone else cover Nick's lecture the next day.
They were tracking a wounded cat through the Amazonian rain forest on the fourth anniversary. A former student of Nick's swore it was a Panthera onca augusta from the middle Pleistocene, the bigger, nastier, older brother of modern-day jaguars.
Nick seemed to think it "could fundamentally change several theories about patterns of evolution, Stephen," if this really was the subspecies augusta, but Stephen honestly didn't care. He was grungy, sweaty, hungry, and tired from tracking it for the last eight days, but he couldn't be happier. Nick was arguing theory with Félix and, as far as Stephen could tell, was completely oblivious to the date.
They had barely enough energy to set up camp at the end of the day, and quickly passed out from exhaustion that night, with no mention of Helen at all.
They spent most of the day on the fifth anniversary of Helen's disappearance boxing up her papers and hauling them to the attic.
After they'd finished cleaning and rearranging the study, Stephen suggested they go to the pub down the street to watch the match and have dinner. Despite his frequent and loudly proclaimed distaste for football, Nick agreed, and they spent the rest of the evening yelling good-naturedly at the telly in a pub packed full of Man U fans.
Stephen stretched his arms above his head and groaned as his spine cracked. He'd been sitting on a metal stool for hours, hunched over the table sorting through box after box of shiny rocks and supposed fossils that the dean of science's "close and personal friend" had given to the department.
He smiled and accepted the mug Nick brought over, cradling it in his hands and warming his fingers as he slowly drank his tea. The office was quiet this late in the evening and the table lamps bathed everything in a soft amber glow.
They finished their work in companionable silence, then cleaned up and headed home.
It wasn't until the next day when he went to get a pen that he realized what the date was, and that it wasn't marked on the planner open on Nick's desk.
Two and a half weeks after the seventh anniversary, Stephen grabbed Nick's post as he let himself in. There was a manila envelope from Nick's solicitor mixed in with the bills and catalogues.
Stephen's first instinct was to rip it up and toss it before Nick saw it. Not that he actually would, but it was very tempting. Instead, he set the post down on the kitchen table, grabbed two glasses from the cupboard near the sink, and switched off the kettle Nick had already started. The drinks cabinet yielded a bottle of Nick's favorite whisky, which he set on the table next to the glasses.
Stephen was really starting to hate the taste of Glenlivet.
Nick grinned when he saw Stephen had arrived, but the smile faded as he moved further into the kitchen and took in the bottle and glasses on the table. Stephen watched as Nick picked up the envelope and ripped it open; he briefly scanned the contents of the top page, then handed over the whole stack of papers.
Stephen heard the chink of the bottle on glass as he read the solicitor's letter and sorted through the rest. There was an application for a presumption of death order, a request for a coroner's inquest, and the paperwork for a dissolution of marriage.
"She says I can hold a funeral after all the paperwork is processed."
Stephen set the papers down and took the glass Nick was holding out. "What do you want?"
"Either my wife's reappearance or the last seven years of my life back would be nice. But I suppose this will have to suffice." Nick downed the rest of his drink, then refilled the glass.
They finished off the last of the whisky several hours later, and seven years of frustration and longing came to a head as they stumbled down the hall to the bedroom, Nick's arm slung over Stephen's shoulder.
They tumbled to the bed and whispered words to each other in the dark, tentative words of fear and burgeoning hope and unacknowledged feelings. The night ended with them side-by-side, panting as the sweat dried on their bodies.
Stephen wore polo necks for the next three days and they stubbornly didn't speak of it for five months.
One year after Nick finally let go, seven months after Stephen and Nick started seeing each other, and three days before the eighth anniversary of her alleged death, Helen left a live ammonite on Nick's desk.
Stephen couldn't help but think everything would be much simpler if she'd just died eight years ago.
...My mother laughs
At the angels who wait for us to pause
During the most ordinary of days
And sing our praise to forgetfulness
Before they slap our souls with their cold wings.
Those angels burden and unbalance us.
Those fucking angels ride us piggyback.
Thanks, as always: Veronica, Temaris, Tiriel, and Alyse.