I locked the front door as I ordinarily did and left through the back after putting my overnight bag in the truck. I didn't change the locks or ask the landlord to keep Kinsley out; she still had the same rights and access arrangements under our lease that she'd had before. Still, I had left her belongings on the porch without consulting her, and I understood even then that I would have to take responsibility for that decision when the immediate shock passed. Pain explains an impulsive act, but it doesn't automatically make the act fair.
Before leaving, I took off the simple silver band Kinsley had given me when we became engaged. She had surprised me with it at dinner, saying that if she got to wear a ring while we planned the wedding, she wanted me to have one too. It had never been expensive, but I'd worn it almost every day and had grown used to the little weight on my hand. I set it on the kitchen counter beside the grocery receipt and stood looking at it until the silence became unbearable.
At seven, I called Wyatt. He answered with the rough voice of a man who hadn't planned on being awake until his alarm went off, but he became completely alert when I asked whether I could stay at his place for a few days. He didn't demand an explanation or make a joke to fill the silence. He simply said, "My couch is yours. Come over whenever you need."
Wyatt had been my closest friend since our first year after college, when we'd both worked entry-level jobs and shared an apartment with a refrigerator that made terrible noises. He knew my habits well enough to recognize when something was wrong, particularly because I hated imposing on other people. At his house, there was usually coffee in the pot, a dog sleeping near the sliding door, and some kind of game on television, even if it was a replay. I needed somewhere ordinary, and Wyatt's house was exactly that.
I drove through damp streets that were beginning to fill with commuters. The sun had risen behind heavy clouds, turning the neighborhood the color of wet newspaper, and people were putting trash cans at their curbs as if it were any other Saturday. At a red light, I noticed a minivan with a little girl asleep in the backseat and found myself thinking about children I had never had. The thought hurt more than the money, more than the cancellations, because the future I'd imagined had faces now, even though I didn't know what those faces would have looked like.
Wyatt opened the door wearing sweatpants and a T-shirt from a hockey game we'd attended years earlier. He looked at the suitcase, then at my face, and stepped aside without asking. His dog, Baxter, greeted me as if I'd come for a planned visit, pushing his nose into my hand until I scratched behind his ears. I nearly lost my composure over that simple welcome, and Wyatt must have seen it because he disappeared into the kitchen and came back with two mugs of coffee.