“I’m leaving.”
“When?”
“Now.”
I laughed, short and mean. “You packed already?”
“I chose you.”
His jaw tensed.
Of course he had. The clothes. The message. This wasn’t spontaneous. It was planned.
“You were going to walk out,” I said slowly, “without even saying goodbye to the kids?”
“They’ll be fine. I’ll send money.”
My hand curled around the counter.
“Money,” I repeated. “Rose is going to ask where her pancakes are tomorrow. You think a direct deposit’s going to answer that?”
His jaw tensed.
He shook his head. “I’m not doing this.”
He turned, heading upstairs.
I followed.
Because there was no way I was letting him ghost a whole family from a hallway.
Our bedroom door was open. His suitcase was already halfway zipped, clothes folded too neatly for someone just deciding to leave.
“You were never going to tell me, were you?” I asked.
“I’m not doing this.”
“I was.”
“When? After the hotel? After the pictures were posted?”
He didn’t answer.
I stood in the doorway, shaking. “You could’ve just told me you were unhappy.”
“I am telling you,” he snapped. “I’m choosing my happiness.”
“And what about ours?”
His back was turned, shoulders stiff.
“I can’t do this with you, Paige,” he said. “You make everything messy.”
“I’m choosing my happiness.”
I felt something snap inside me, like a rubber band that had been stretched too long.
“No, you made it messy when you decided to see someone else.”
He said nothing. He just dragged the suitcase past me and out the door.
I didn’t follow him, but I did walk to the window, watching his taillights disappear without slowing once.
Then I went downstairs and locked the door, letting the weight of everything he didn’t say hit me all at once.
**
