“You’re being ridiculous.”
I put two work shirts inside.
Underwear.
Socks.
Jeans.
Laptop.
Chargers.
“To prove what?”
“Nothing.”
“You told me to leave.”
“I said if you don’t like—”
“I heard you.”
She stood in the doorway.
I went to the bathroom.
Toothbrush.
Razor.
Medication.
Back to the bedroom.
Rachel’s confidence began dissolving.
“Where are you going?”
“My brother’s.”
“For how long?”
“I don’t know.”
“Ethan.”
I zipped the bag.
She looked at it.
Then at me.
“What are you talking about?”
“I’m leaving.”
Her face changed.
“Wait.”
I took my jacket from the hook.
“I didn’t mean right now.”
There it was.
The truth beneath the threat.
She had wanted the power of making me leave.
Not the consequence of me actually going.
I looked around the apartment.
The couch.
Television.
Dining table.
Bookshelf.
Coffee machine.
Everything I had stopped thinking of as individual property because I thought we were building a shared life.
Then Rachel.
“The apartment is yours,” I said.
“You made that perfectly clear.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“It is exactly what you said.”
“I was angry.”
“So was I.”
“You don't see me making some huge dramatic decision.”
“No.”
“You made a huge decision and expected me to pretend you hadn’t.”
She stared.
“Are you breaking up with me?”
I took a breath.
“I’m leaving tonight.”
“We can decide the rest when we're not angry.”
For the first time, fear appeared in her face.
Real fear.
But something in me had already changed.
I opened the front door.
Rachel said:
“You’re seriously walking away over one argument?”
I looked back.
“No.”
“I’m walking away tonight because in one argument you told me what you believe happens when we disagree badly enough.”
She said nothing.
“You stop being my partner.”
“You become the person with the lease.”
Then I left.
My brother Alex opened his door at 9:40 p.m.
He looked at the overnight bag.
Then at me.
“Rachel?”
“Rachel.”
He stepped aside.
No questions.
That was one of the reasons I loved him.
His apartment was smaller than mine.
One-bedroom.
Old building.
Terrible parking.
He gave me the couch.
At midnight we sat in his kitchen eating cereal because neither of us had bought real food.
Eventually he asked:
“You want to talk?”
“Not tonight.”
“Did you do something?”
“No.”
“Did she?”
“Not exactly.”
He nodded.