INT. CHEN RESIDENCE, CATALINA ISLAND. NIGHT.
Maggie’s nervous. It’s an odd feeling. It’s odder, still, to note that this is one of the few instances that she’s felt as such around his presence.
Being married to Nate was — is, she corrects herself — easy, and she’s yet to figure out whether that’s a good or a bad thing. They’ve survived this long, at the very least, and more than two decades together seems like a good enough run. Certainly not worth scoffing at, as her parents had done in her and Nate’s tenth-, fifteenth-, and twenty-year anniversaries, still holding their breaths and waiting for everything to fail spectacularly.
She doesn’t want to give them the satisfaction of being right.
Instead of allowing it to crash and burn, she establishes the setting of a slow simmer: of her, seated at the couch on the foot of their bed; the papers, heavy and weightless all at once, sitting on the table beside it. Slow and steady, just as they are, and may never be again.
“Hey,” begins Maggie as he enters, cracking a small smile as she jokes lamely, “fancy seeing you here.” ( @nathanhaverford )