“Of what?”
“Losing everything.”
“You mean losing me?”
“Yes.”
“No.”
She looked up.
“You were certain you wouldn’t lose me.”
Claire said nothing.
“You were scared I’d learn enough to make staying difficult.”
“That’s not fair.”
I felt the old impulse to defend myself disappear before it fully formed.
“You told another man I would still be here.”
Her face changed.
“I never said that.”
I looked toward the phone.
“Did you?”
She looked away.
I knew then there was more.
“How long?”
Claire stared at her hands.
“About a year.”
“The hotel is eight months old.”
“I know.”
“When did it start?”
“Last spring.”
“Physical?”
“No.”
“When physical?”
She hesitated.
“June.”
I sat back.
June.
Nine months earlier.
The receipt was not even the beginning.
“How many times?”
“I don’t know.”
That answer hurt in a way the others had not.
Not because of the number.
Because counting had stopped.
I looked toward the clock.
5:12 a.m.
Outside, the sky was beginning to turn blue-gray.
People across the neighborhood would soon start coffee makers and open garage doors.
Inside our kitchen, twelve years had become a timeline.
“Was tonight supposed to end it?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“With him?”
“Yes.”
“Or with me?”
Claire looked startled.
“With him.”
“You told me you were going to sleep with him.”
“I know.”
“Then come home.”
“Yes.”
“And pretend the last nine months had been one night.”
She covered her face again.
“I don’t know what I was thinking.”
For the first time that morning, I believed her completely.
I picked up my suitcase.
“Mark, please.”
“I have to leave.”
“Can we talk later?”
“Eventually.”
“Today?”
“No.”
“Tomorrow?”
“I don’t know.”
She stood.
“Don’t shut me out.”
I looked at her.
“For six months, every time I tried to talk to you, you called me controlling, jealous, paranoid, or insecure.”
Claire’s face tightened.
“You don’t get to punish me for that forever.”
“I’m not.”
“Then stay.”
“That’s not the same thing.”
I carried the suitcase toward the door.
Claire followed until the kitchen ended.