She stared at me.
"I can cancel."
I felt something colder than anger.
"Because I'm leaving?"
"No."
"Then why didn't you cancel before you told me?"
She said nothing.
There it was.
"You wanted to go."
Her shoulders dropped.
"Yes."
The honesty hurt.
But I was grateful for it.
"Then go."
"I don't want to now."
"That's your decision."
"What are you going to do?"
"I don't know."
"Where will you sleep?"
"Theo's."
"You're really just going to walk out?"
I lifted the bag.
"No."
"I'm going to walk out because I refuse to sit here wondering what time my wife will return from another man's date."
She covered her face.
I stepped toward the door.
Then stopped.
"Clara."
She looked up.
"I have spent years convincing myself that distance was temporary."
"Stress."
"Work."
"Parenting."
"Life."
"I don't know when you stopped choosing this marriage."
"But I'm not going to stop living because you stopped caring for it."
"That's not fair."
"Probably not."
"Neither is tonight."
Then I left.
The hallway smelled faintly of someone's dinner.
Garlic.
Onions.
Ordinary life behind other doors.
I remember standing at the elevator while my own front door remained open behind me.
Clara did not follow.
The elevator arrived.
I stepped inside.
The doors closed.
For the first time in fourteen years, I left home without knowing whether I was still going home again.
Outside, the September air was colder than expected.
I sat in my car for several minutes.
My hands shook only after I was alone.
That irritated me.
I gripped the steering wheel and waited.
Then drove.
I had no destination until I realized the car was already taking me toward Theo's house.
Theo Grant had been my closest friend since university.
He knew how to talk and, more importantly, when not to.
I arrived twenty minutes later.
He opened the door wearing sweatpants and a faded baseball shirt.
He looked at my face.
Then at the overnight bag.
He stepped aside.
"Guest room's a mess."
"That's okay."
"Beer?"
"No."
"Whiskey?"
"No."
"Water?"
"Yes."
He handed me a glass.
We sat in his living room with the television muted.
For ten minutes, neither of us spoke.
Finally he asked:
"Clara?"
"Yes."
"Another person?"
I looked at him.
"How did you know?"
"You look like somebody died but you're still angry at them."
That was Theo.
Blunt enough to be irritating.
Accurate enough to be useful.
I told him.
Not everything.
Just the facts.
Logan.
Date.
Months of talking.
Clara not knowing what would happen.
When I finished, Theo looked at the floor.
"Did she go?"
"I don't know."
"You going to check?"
"No."
"Good."
"I don't think I can survive knowing in real time."
"Then don't."
My phone vibrated.