"You told me you wanted to end the relationship," he said. I demanded to know why he did not care enough to ask for a reason. He swallowed and told me he cared very much, but he was trying to respect what I had said. Instead of hearing the pain in his voice, I heard only the absence of the behavior I had demanded from him in secret.
"I meant that little to you?" I asked. "You can walk away like none of this mattered?" Donovan leaned back slightly, his expression tightening. "Samantha, what are you asking me to do?" he said. I could have saved something then by telling the truth plainly and taking responsibility. Instead, I accused him of failing a test he had never known he was taking.
"You're supposed to fight for me," I said. He stared at me. The silence went on long enough for my anger to dissolve into dread. "Was this a test?" he asked, and I looked away. My refusal to answer told him everything.
He stood up slowly, as though sudden movement might make the situation worse. "You ended our relationship to see whether I would ignore your answer?" I told him I needed to know whether he loved me enough to try. "I have spent a year and a half trying," he said. "I made room for you in my life, and I trusted what you told me. Tonight you used that trust against me."
I reached toward him. He stepped back, not dramatically, but enough to make it clear that I no longer had permission to assume his hand would be there. "Donovan, I didn't mean it," I said. He shook his head. "You meant for me to believe it," he answered. That distinction split something open inside me because it was impossible to argue with.
He walked toward the door, and the panic I had wanted from him finally entered the room through me. I begged him not to leave like this, then hated the sound of my own voice because it was the sound I had expected to enjoy from him. He stopped with his hand on the doorknob. For an irrational instant, I thought the test had worked after all and that he would turn around to deliver the grand speech I had rehearsed receiving.
Instead, he reached into his navy jacket and took out a small brass key. There was a plain paper tag attached with a loop of blue string. He came back to the table, laid it carefully beside my untouched glass of water, and kept his fingers on it for one second before withdrawing his hand. "I came here tonight to ask you something," he said.
The writing on the tag was unmistakably his, neat and slightly slanted, made with the same black pen he used for grocery lists and birthday cards. On one side it said, "BIRCH STREET — THE YELLOW KITCHEN." Underneath, in smaller letters, were the words, "Only if we choose it together." I read them twice before I understood why his hand had been in his pocket when he arrived, why he had looked almost happy, and why he had come so directly from work.