He texted shortly after five. "Off shift. Picking up one thing on the way. See you around six-thirty?" I stared at the message, feeling a thrill of anticipation that I mistook for certainty. "Yes," I replied. I wondered whether the thing he was picking up was flowers or dessert, and briefly worried that an unexpected gift might complicate my timing. It did not occur to me that he might have an important question of his own.
At six-twenty-eight I heard his truck pull into the lot. He came up the stairs carrying his jacket over one arm because the evening was still warm, then slipped it on before I opened the door. I noticed the navy fabric immediately; it was the jacket I had given him for his birthday, and he wore it whenever he wanted to look a little nicer without dressing formally. His hair was still slightly damp from a shower at work. He smiled when he saw me, and for one terrible second I nearly abandoned the whole idea.
"Hey," he said, leaning forward for a kiss. I turned my face so his lips touched my cheek. The smile left his eyes before it left his mouth. "Everything okay?" he asked. I stepped back to let him inside, hearing myself answer that we should sit down. One of his hands remained in his jacket pocket as he crossed the room; I thought nothing of it.
He took his usual place on the sofa, leaving space for me. I sat in the chair opposite him because distance seemed important to the performance. I folded my hands in my lap to conceal their trembling and drew a breath that sounded convincing even to me. "Donovan, I've been thinking about us," I said. "I don't think this is working anymore. I want to break up."
His face changed slowly. First there was confusion, as though he expected another sentence explaining why I had chosen those words. Then came surprise, followed by a stillness I had never seen in him before. He did not reach for me or raise his voice. He looked at the floor, took a careful breath, and nodded once.
"Okay," he said.
The word fell into the room without the thunder I had ordered for it. I waited while he considered me with a look that seemed both wounded and respectful. He set his hands on his knees and glanced once toward the door. When he moved as though to stand, my stomach tightened with a fear I had not accounted for.
"Okay?" I repeated, unable to conceal my disbelief. "If that's how you feel," he answered, "I'm not going to pressure you to stay." I had never hated a reasonable sentence so quickly. I asked whether he was really going to leave after a year and a half, and he looked at me as though he had missed an important part of our conversation.