Pete sat in a thick, muddling fog, his fingers fumbling with paper and glue, sniffling softly in his misery. He didn't hear the light footsteps on the porch, nor the familiar voice, until his name was called for the third time. Then he started, guiltily, and began to try and hide what he held clumsily on his lap.
Beth came into their bedroom and saw him, and what he was trying to do. The empty beer cans, the shattered glass upon the carpeted floor, and the ragged tear in the wallpaper between bureau and closet told her what he'd done. "I don't blame you," she said softly, cupping her hand gently about the back of his neck. Pete suddenly choked on his tears and flung his arms about her thighs, burying his face hard against her abdomen.
"I was so mad—so mad at you," he said between spasms of relieved weeping. "I came up here, drinking, saw the wedding picture on the wall—s-smashed the glass, and—"
Beth looked at the wedding photo where it had fallen in two curling halves upon the floor, and smiled. "But you tried to fix it again," she said softly.
"Of course I tried to fix it!" he muttered, keeping his face close against the warm softness of her belly. "I got mad, but I got over it."
"Me, too," said Beth. "A mile from the house, I screamed for Martin to let me out of the car. I had to walk back. No one's bothering to run the busses anymore, I—I saw the wine, in the sink. Is there any beer left?"
He nodded, mutely, still holding her tightly.
"Then we can still have our party," she said decisively. "Maybe not so fancy as we'd planned, but—"
Then her husband was surging to his feet and stilling her lips with the hungry pressure of his own.