"A few months." She adjusted the ring so the stone caught the candlelight. "It wasn't serious at first. I didn't think you'd want all the complicated details."
"Were you still telling me you loved me?"
"Patrick, relationships evolve. People say things because they mean them in the moment."
Three days earlier, she had texted me that she missed me and couldn't wait until we had a weekend to ourselves. I had saved that message without thinking about it because receiving affection from her had become rare enough to notice. Now I could hear her explaining why the words didn't count anymore. Somehow, that explanation hurt almost as much as the ring.
"What happens now?" I asked.
Her shoulders relaxed, as though we had finally arrived at the portion of the conversation she had rehearsed. "Well, Landon and I need a little time to figure out where we're going to live. His current arrangement is complicated, and I don't want to rush into something we can't afford. So I thought I could stay here for a month or two while we sort out our next step."
I waited for a smile that would tell me she had lost her mind in a humorous way. None came. She reached for her water and continued, "Obviously I'll be more independent now. We can establish boundaries. You don't have to make it awkward."
"You want to plan your wedding from my kitchen," I said, "while I pay for the kitchen."
"You always make everything about money."
"You just told me you're marrying somebody else and asked me to keep housing you."
"I'm being honest with you. Shouldn't I get credit for that?"
I felt something I hadn't expected: the room inside my head went quiet. The urge to argue was there, along with anger and embarrassment, but beneath it was a recognition that none of my usual explanations would make sense of this. She wasn't telling me she wanted to repair our relationship. She wasn't even asking whether I was all right. She was negotiating how much longer she could use the life I had provided while she moved toward somebody else's.
I stood and carried my plate to the counter because I needed to move. The faucet dripped twice before I turned it off. Through the window I could see the porch light and the little maple tree I'd planted when I bought the place. I had saved for that house for seven years, working overtime and living in apartments with unreliable heat. I had imagined filling it with a family someday. I had not imagined a woman using it as a waiting room for her engagement to someone else.
"Congratulations," I said when I came back. "I mean that as much as I can right now. But we're not continuing this relationship, and we need to work out how you move out."