I sighed. “Maybe.”
“I just… God this is so hard. I wish this wasn’t happening.” She wiped away a tear.
I pulled her into my arms.
“Me too.”
And then we made love—more tenderly than we have since we got engaged.
I think we both knew—know—that it’s the last time.
That was last night.
I’m still processing as I wake up to the smell of her vegan, gluten-freebanana muffins. She’s in the kitchen, in her workout clothes, making fresh green juice.
“Hi, handsome,” she says.
For a moment, I wonder if I hallucinated last night. If it was just my subconscious working through a problem my conscious mind refused to acknowledge was real.
Then I notice the suitcases by the door.
Jesus. She’s leavingtoday?
“I reserved a U-Haul to pick up at nine,” she says. She holds out a juice. It smells like cucumber and parsley.
I gape at her.
“You reserved a U-Haul in themiddle of the night?”
“Yesterday,” she says, looking at the juicer rather than at me. “Before we talked.”
What do you say to that?
“Ah,” is all I manage.
“I should be able to get everything packed up by the end of the day,” she says. “Get out of your hair.”
I go very still. “You’re notin my hair,Sarah.”
“That’s not what I meant. Sorry, I just don’t know how to act.” She puts both of her palms on the kitchen island, leans forward. “Are you mad?”
“No. This is all just very sudden.”
She nods. “I want to rip off the Band-Aid, you know?”
I suppose she’s right. A few more days of cohabitation is not going to change the fact that another one of my relationships has failed.
“Okay,” I say, “I get that. Why don’t I go pick up the U-Haul while you start packing. I’ll help you move back into your apartment, and then we can get Vinioso’s takeout.”
Vinioso’s is an incredible red sauce joint by her place. Back when we were first dating, we spent many a night slurping up their spaghetti pomodoro over wine and delightful conversation. It seems like a fitting place to say goodbye.
“That sounds perfect,” she says.
When I get back with the U-Haul, we spend the afternoon packing. Oddly, it’s one of the happiest days we’ve had together in months. We laugh and make jokes and when she tries to pack up a pillow embroidered with a golden retriever, I demand she let me keep it.
“You despise it!” she protests.
“Stockholm syndrome. I can’t live without it.”
