I zipped the pouch, returned to the bedroom, and found her sitting on the edge of the bed with her arms folded. She wore the green silk blouse she'd bought for this trip, the one she had held against herself in our bedroom three nights earlier and asked whether it made her eyes look brighter. I had told her she looked beautiful. It bothered me how clearly I could remember that small, ordinary moment now that it had become part of something else.
"What do you want me to say?" I asked.
She looked away. "I don't know. Something."
For weeks, things had felt wrong. The late-night messages, the way she turned her phone facedown whenever I came into a room, the canceled dinners explained by sudden client meetings, and the affection that appeared whenever she needed me to agree to a plan. I had noticed all of it and accused her of none of it. Until that night, some stubborn part of me had still hoped I was imagining the distance.
"I didn't mean for this to happen," she said.
I almost laughed. People liked to say that after making a long series of deliberate choices. They made the call, sent the message, booked the room, and told the lie, then described the outcome as something that happened to them, like rain. But I was too tired to argue about grammar or responsibility. I reached for my jacket.
"Where are you going?" she asked.
"Out."
"It's almost midnight."
"I noticed."
She stood. "We're still sharing this room."
"For tonight."
Something in my voice made her hesitate. Then my phone vibrated, the screen lighting up in my palm. I glanced down, expecting a reminder from the hotel or a message from my sister asking whether the train ride had gone well. Instead I saw a name that stopped every thought in my head.
Adrian Cole.