I told him what happened. The break-in call, the ride across town, the text at one forty-five, and the emails I had sent afterward came out in an oddly even voice. Wyatt listened all the way through, occasionally asking a precise question but never interrupting to supply an opinion. When I told him about the bags on the porch, he winced and said that part might cause problems, especially because she was on the lease.
"I know," I said. "I handled it badly." Wyatt nodded, relieved that he didn't have to explain why hurt feelings didn't cancel somebody's right to retrieve their things or enter a shared home. Then he asked whether I was absolutely certain about ending the wedding, and I told him I wasn't certain about much except that I could not stand before our families in eighty-two days and make vows I no longer trusted either of us to keep.
He sat with that for a while. "You don't have to decide every detail today," he finally said. "But you're allowed to decide what you won't live with." I held the warm mug between my hands and listened to Baxter snoring beside the couch. It was the first thing anyone had said that morning that made me feel less like I was trapped in the decision I'd made.
At nine fifteen, my phone began vibrating against the coffee table. Kinsley's name lit the screen, disappeared, and returned almost immediately. I didn't answer because I knew I could not manage a conversation that was likely to begin with an accusation and end with me trying to explain feelings I hadn't yet named. Wyatt watched the phone ring a third time, then slid it toward me without saying anything. He understood that avoiding the call was still a decision I would need to own.
The text messages arrived in clusters. First came confusion: "Why are my things outside?" Then anger: "Nolan, why is the door locked?" Then outrage: "Are you seriously doing this because I helped a friend in a crisis?" The last message in that sequence called me insane, and I remember staring at that word because it came from the same person who had been drawing circles on my palm only twelve hours before.
I read the messages twice, set the phone facedown, and looked at Wyatt. "I don't know how to make this less ugly," I said. He rubbed a hand across his forehead, then told me to be direct, to avoid threatening language, and to make sure she understood that the lease and her access to personal belongings would be handled properly. I wrote a reply slowly enough that I could check each sentence before sending it.