He took a slow breath. "Did she say that exactly?"
"Exactly enough." My voice broke on the last word, and I turned away before he could see my face change.
My brother touched my shoulder once, briefly, then set down the dolly. "All right," he said. "Show me what's yours."
We worked without much talking. He carried the record player wrapped in a blanket and made sure the needle arm was secure, something Sarah had once teased him for being fussy about. He stacked my books in smaller boxes so neither of us would have to pretend a man could lift forty hardcovers in one motion. When we reached the living room, he asked about the couch, and I said it could stay.
"You're sure?" he asked.
"It's not worth another argument."
He nodded, although I could tell he did not fully agree. There would be time later to decide what was fair and settle the shared expenses, but he understood that the first task was simply getting me somewhere safe to sleep. By eleven forty-five, his truck was loaded and my half of the closet was empty. I had never realized how little of the apartment belonged to me until I saw all of it stacked in the back of a pickup.
I went through the rooms once more. In the bathroom I took my razor and the medication from the cabinet, leaving her things where they were. In the bedroom I checked the outlet behind the dresser for my charger. In the kitchen I turned off the candle, looked at the chicken Parmesan cooling on the counter, and finally admitted that I was not going to eat it.
Then I opened the notebook beside the refrigerator and tore out a sheet of paper. I had imagined writing a long explanation, something that would finally make her understand what I had been feeling, but I knew by then that she understood more than she admitted. She had seen my efforts and chosen to treat them as an inconvenience. I wrote one sentence, folded the sheet once, and placed it beside her keys.
You said we were basically over. I took you seriously.
I photographed the note, not because I expected an argument but because I wanted to remember the exact words if I later tried to soften the decision. I took my key off the ring we shared and left hers untouched. Then I walked outside, closed the door, and climbed into my brother's truck. I did not look up at the apartment windows as we pulled away.
We drove through nearly empty streets toward his place on the other side of town. He kept the radio off, and the dashboard lights gave his face a tired, gentle outline. At a red light he asked if I wanted to talk, and I shook my head. He said that was fine and drove on.