She ended our relationship in a hotel room hundreds of miles from home, then calmly reminded me that we still had to sleep in the same bed.
"I've found someone who actually excites me," she said. "This trip is over for us."
For a few seconds, I simply stared at her. Outside the window, Chicago glittered beneath us, a thousand little windows and moving headlights indifferent to the fact that the vacation we'd spent months planning had just become the strangest breakup of my life.
Her suitcase was open on the upholstered chair. My clothes were scattered beside the bed, and two half-finished glasses of wine sat on the table beside a brochure for the architecture river cruise we were supposed to take in the morning. Somehow, Tessa looked relieved.
I didn't argue. Maybe that surprised her, because she had probably expected questions, anger, or begging. Instead, I picked up my phone, checked the time, and said, "Okay." Her expression changed just slightly, as though I'd given the wrong answer to a question she had spent weeks rehearsing.
"Okay?"
"Yeah."
I stood, walked to the bathroom, and began gathering my toothbrush, razor, and prescription medication from the little shelf above the sink. I could hear her moving behind me but didn't turn around. Four years together had taught me the sound of her footsteps, the rhythm of her irritation, and the almost inaudible breath she took when she felt she was losing control of a conversation. That breath came while I was putting my toiletries in a zippered travel pouch.
"Aren't you going to ask who he is?" she called.
"No."
"Daniel, we've been together four years."
"I know."
"And that's all you have to say?"