"What are you doing?" she asked. I told her I was packing a bag and that I would arrange to collect the rest of my things later. She stared at me, then laughed again, but this time there was an uncertain edge to it.
"Alex, stop it. You're being childish. This isn't funny." I didn't answer the accusation, because I had already spent too much of the year explaining that my feelings weren't performances designed to obtain hers.
I began with my side of the closet, lifting out my work shirts and folding them into the bag. I took two pairs of jeans, a sweater, several T-shirts, and enough socks and underwear to get me through a week. My hands moved carefully, almost too carefully, and I could feel how much energy it took not to stop and reconsider every item. I didn't touch her clothes, her drawers, or the shared things we would have to discuss later. I was leaving, not carrying out a raid.
"You're seriously doing this over a dress?" she said. I looked up and told her that it wasn't over a dress, and not even simply over Mark. It was over the fact that when I asked whether we could talk about our relationship, she told me that caring about it was the same as controlling her. She rolled her eyes, called that a dramatic interpretation, and announced that she wasn't changing her plans. I said I hadn't asked her to.
In the bathroom I collected my toothbrush, razor, unscented deodorant, and the medication I took for seasonal allergies. Chloe used to tease me about how everything I bought smelled like nothing, and I suddenly remembered a summer afternoon when she'd hidden a ridiculous tropical body spray in my gym bag as a joke. The memory hurt in a way the argument had not, because it belonged to a period when we had been affectionate about each other's differences. I put the deodorant into the small zippered pocket and closed it. The next thing to do was to find my passport.
Back in the bedroom, I opened the drawer of my nightstand and took my passport, a spare set of glasses, the biography of a silent-film actor I was reading, and the photograph of my parents that had lived beside my lamp for as long as I could remember. The beach photo of Chloe and me stayed where it was, both of us sunburned and laughing into the wind. I didn't pick it up, partly because it was hers as much as mine and partly because I wasn't ready to put that particular memory into a bag. I took my laptop charger from beside the bed and left the drawer open just long enough to make sure I hadn't overlooked a document.
Chloe remained near the vanity, still dressed to go out, watching me as if she expected the next scene to restore the familiar order. "Is this a tantrum?" she asked. "Because I'm not canceling tonight just to prove something to you." I told her that she could go wherever she wanted, and that I wasn't waiting for her permission to change my mind. Then I folded the last shirt, tucked it beside my shoes, and zipped the bag.