When I emailed Kinsley the figures, I said I wanted a written settlement rather than ongoing arguments. She responded that she couldn't possibly pay six thousand dollars at once and had already spent money on moving into a smaller place. I wrote back that I wasn't demanding an immediate transfer and would consider monthly payments once we'd agreed on the amount. She didn't answer for two days, then asked whether we could meet in person.
I hesitated because the prospect of seeing her again filled me with dread. The last image I had of Kinsley was the person who left our couch on a rainy Friday, saying she'd be home when the police arrived. In the weeks since, I had heard her voice through a phone, read her messages, and watched her name appear on documents, but I hadn't stood across from her. I knew a meeting could reopen emotional arguments I was not ready to have.
Wyatt offered to come and sit at another table if it would make me feel more comfortable. I thanked him but decided to go alone, provided we met in a public place and limited the conversation to the lease, the deposits, and the ring. We chose a coffee shop near a small shopping center with large windows and enough afternoon traffic that it felt ordinary rather than intimate. I printed the relevant paperwork the night before, organized it in a folder, and reminded myself that I wasn't attending the meeting to win a debate about our relationship.
On the morning of the meeting, I drove past the road leading to our old house. I hadn't planned to take that route, but road construction had diverted traffic, and suddenly I was at the intersection where I used to turn left toward home. My hands tightened on the wheel before I realized what I was doing. I kept driving straight, feeling the peculiar grief of someone who knows exactly where a familiar road leads but no longer belongs at the destination.
Kinsley was already seated when I arrived. She had a paper cup in front of her and a folded tissue in her hand, and for a moment I barely recognized how tired she looked. Her hair, usually neatly styled even on weekends, was pulled back carelessly, and there were dark circles beneath her eyes. She stood as if she wanted to hug me, then stopped when she saw my expression.
"Hi," she said. Her voice sounded smaller than I remembered, and the word contained more uncertainty than our four years together had ever required. I said hello, pulled out the chair opposite her, and placed the folder between us. The smell of coffee and toasted bread filled the room, absurdly normal around a conversation that both of us had been dreading.
She looked at the folder and began to cry before I'd opened it. "Nolan, please, can we talk about us first?" she asked. "Just five minutes, without the paperwork?" I felt the familiar instinct to comfort her rise immediately, as if my body hadn't received the news that comforting her was no longer my responsibility.