She gets (at least the part that's trying does) that he's just forgotten. She got caught up in complications, but she wasn't scheduled to work late tonight. He knew that, she thought; they were going to try and talk. But it's later than she intended, and he's exhausted and angry pretty much all the time, and she gets that he's forgotten and gone to sleep. Maybe she would have too, if their circumstances had been reversed.
Except she wouldn't.
Not where they are right now. And all the glass-half-full getting it in the world isn't helping to make it feel better that she's standing outside her house, in drizzling rain, in front of a locked front door she can't open because she left her keys behind this morning when she rushed out, late, not bothering to go back for them because (and now she's going around in freaking circles) they were both going to be home to try and talk, and . . .
She sighs.
She'd throw pebbles up at the bedroom window or something, since the doorbell hasn't attracted his attention. But she honestly can't deal with the look in his eyes as he uses the key thing to drive more nails in the several coffins he's reserved for her. The look in his eyes, the slow head-shaking, backed up by the mantra of doom and condemnation: it was her trial; the Alzheimer's research was all for her and now she's forgetting her keys, getting locked out of the house and . . . everything he can't and won't understand and she can't and won't retract.
She breathes.
Sits down on the swing and pulls her coat around herself. Waits for Lexie to come home wrapped around Jackson and let her in. Feels strangely at peace with the fact she doesn't have a choice.