Part 4
“You decided our marriage was over in fourteen seconds.”
Daniel zipped the suitcase.
“No. I admitted it in fourteen seconds.”
Her face changed.
He regretted the precision of the sentence as soon as he heard it. It sounded rehearsed, too complete. Real decisions were messier. His was messier. His hands were shaking on the zipper.
Maren saw.
Some of the devastation left her expression, replaced by alertness. She had always been skilled at locating weakness.
“You don’t know what you’re doing,” she said.
“No.”
“Then don’t do it.”
“I know what I’m not doing.”
“What?”
“Pretending I didn’t see you.”
Daniel lifted the bag.
Maren moved in front of the door.
She did not touch him. She simply occupied the space, barefoot and rigid.
“We have a house,” she said. “Accounts. Your mother’s furniture. The mortgage. My business address is our address. You can’t turn our life into a moral gesture and walk downstairs.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
“Yes.”
“You haven’t even asked what happens to me.”
Daniel looked at her.
That question, more than anything else, made the room feel suddenly airless. Not because he did not care what happened to her. He did. Caring had never been the problem.
“What happened to Elias?” he asked.
She blinked.
“You know his name?”
“No. I don’t.”
“Then why did you call him that?”
Daniel frowned. He had not. He had only thought of him as the musician, the old man, the stranger.
Maren’s face reddened.
“You said—”
“I didn’t.”
They stared at each other. The moment was so oddly human, so disconnected from the argument, that Daniel almost laughed. Exhaustion had scrambled her hearing. His own mind was not much better.
Maren pressed two fingers to her temple.
“I don’t know his name,” she said.
“Neither do I.”
“That’s my point.”
“No. It isn’t.”
“Daniel, please.”
The word softened him against his will.
He set the bag down.
Maren’s shoulders lowered.
He moved past her to the small desk, tore a sheet from the hotel notepad, and wrote the address of their house.
“What are you doing?”
“I’ll come by Monday evening for clothes and my work files. You can be there or not. I won’t take anything that’s yours.”
“You’re writing me a note while I’m standing here.”
“I’m trying not to argue.”
“You think this isn’t an argument?”
“I’m trying not to say things because I want them to hurt.”
Maren stared at him.
“That may be the first honest thing you’ve said all day.”
Daniel placed the note beside the anniversary card.
He picked up his bag again.
This time, when he approached the door, Maren moved aside.
He passed close enough to smell the perfume she had worn since their third date. His body recognized it before his mind could defend itself. For one stupid instant, he wanted to set down the suitcase and bury his face in her hair.
He opened the door.
“Did you ever love me?” she asked.
Daniel stopped with one foot in the hallway.
He turned, angry now.
“Don’t do that.”
“Answer me.”
“You don’t get to erase nine years because I’m leaving.”
“You’re the one erasing them.”
“No. I’m ending what they became.”
Maren’s mouth opened, but nothing followed.
Daniel walked out and closed the door.
At the elevator, he realized he had left his phone charger on the bedside table. He stood facing the room for nearly a minute, furious at the ordinary inconvenience. Then he continued toward the stairs.
He bought another charger from a pharmacy six blocks away.
The clerk did not look at his bare ring finger. No one did.
Daniel found a motel near the freeway where the room smelled faintly of bleach and old air-conditioning. Its window faced a parking lot instead of the ocean. A vending machine glowed outside the door.
He sat on the bed without turning on the television.
Maren called twice. Then she stopped.
At nine seventeen, a number he did not recognize appeared on his screen.
Daniel almost let it go to voicemail. He answered because he had spent the past hour imagining emergencies.
“Mr. Mercer?”
The voice belonged to Noah, the server.
“Yes.”
“This is Noah from the Cypress House.”
Daniel sat straighter.
“Is someone hurt?”
“No. Sorry. I should have said that first.”
Noah paused. In the silence, Daniel heard dishes and a swinging kitchen door.
“I found your number on the room account,” Noah said. “I know I’m not supposed to call guests directly.”
“What happened?”
“The gentleman came back.”
“The musician?”
“Yes. His name is Elias Ward.”
Daniel glanced at the motel’s stained ceiling, remembering the confusion in the hotel room. Elias. He had not known the name then. His mind must have supplied it later, and Maren must have heard something else entirely. The details of the argument were already becoming unreliable.
“Is he all right?”
“He brought the tray back.”
Daniel looked at the empty nightstand.
“He didn’t need to do that.”
“I told him.”
“What about the woman who was with him?”
“She came too. Lena Hart. She used to work here.”
Daniel waited.
Noah lowered his voice.
“She was in housekeeping. Not lately. She asked if she could wash her hands. Security usually handles that, but—”
“You let her in.”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
Another pause.
“I’m not sure it was,” Noah said. “Not for me.”
Daniel understood. Noah had broken policy. The hotel might treat mercy as an unauthorized decision.
“Are they still there?”
“They’re outside near the loading entrance. Elias wants to speak with your wife.”
Daniel stood.
“Why?”
“He says she should have a chance to apologize before he decides whether to file a report.”
Daniel closed his eyes.
“Has he called the police?”
“No.”
“Has the hotel?”
“Management is reviewing the terrace cameras.”
There it was: the modern trace of an act Maren had treated as private because the person she harmed lacked power. Cameras. Incident forms. Liability.
May you like
Daniel took his car keys from the table.
“Don’t let him go upstairs.”
