Chương 7
Sarah watched the steam rise.
“You still want to stay,” she said.
He did not answer.
She looked at him.
“Daniel.”
He put the kettle down.
“For tonight?”
“In the marriage.”
He gave a tired, disbelieving shake of his head.
“Why are you asking me this on Christmas?”
“Because apparently today is when we tell the truth.”
He looked toward the stairs.
Then back at her.
“I don’t know.”
Sarah had expected either yes or no.
The uncertainty hurt differently.
He rubbed his beard.
“I wanted to stay for a long time. Then I wanted you to want me to stay. Then I wanted to stop feeling like I was applying for a job you’d already filled with being alone.”
Sarah looked at the tea.
“And now?”
“Now I don’t know which part is love and which part is panic.”
She let out a slow breath.
That might have been the most honest thing he had said to her in a year.
She said, “Me too.”
He looked at her.
She corrected herself.
“Not about wanting you to stay. About what’s love and what’s panic.”
Daniel nodded.
She picked up the mug.
“I think you should still move Tuesday.”
His face tightened.
Not much.
Enough.
“Okay.”
“We need to stop teaching him that uncertainty means nothing has to change.”
Daniel looked down.
“Okay.”
The next morning Leo opened one present.
Not the big one.
A book from his grandmother about strange animals of the deep ocean.
He read two pages while eating cereal.
Daniel made eggs no one had asked for.
Sarah emptied the dishwasher.
At ten, Leo came into the kitchen with a laundry basket.
“What’s that?” Sarah asked.
“My stuff.”
The basket contained three T-shirts, underwear, two pairs of sweatpants, one sneaker, four books, a toothbrush, a stuffed dinosaur named Randall, his Nintendo Switch, and a pillow.
Daniel stared.
“Where are you taking it?”
“To your apartment.”
“You haven’t seen my apartment.”
“I know.”
“You don’t need to pack yet.”
“I do.”
“Why?”
Leo set the basket down.
“Because I don’t know what stays where.”
Sarah leaned against the dishwasher.
Daniel crouched near the basket.
“You don’t have to split everything.”
“I have two houses.”
“You’ll have things at both.”
“That’s splitting.”
“You can take whatever you want back and forth.”
“What if I forget?”
“I’ll bring it.”
“What if Mom needs the car?”
“I have a car.”
“What if you’re at work?”
“Then Mom can—”
Leo sighed.
Daniel stopped.
The sigh sounded exactly like Sarah.
Sarah pretended not to notice.
Leo pointed into the basket.
“I need another charger.”
“We can get one.”
“And pajamas.”
“I bought pajamas for the apartment.”
Leo stared at him.
“When?”
Daniel hesitated.
“Last week.”
“What kind?”
“Space ones.”
“I don’t like space pajamas.”
“You liked them in October.”
“That was October.”
Sarah turned away so Leo would not see her smile.
Daniel rubbed his mouth.
“Okay. We’ll return them.”
“Do they have feet?”
“No.”
“Good.”
Daniel lifted the single sneaker.
“Where’s the other one?”
“I couldn’t find it.”
“Excellent start.”
Leo glared at him.
Daniel put the sneaker back.
“Sorry.”
But Leo’s mouth twitched again.
Later that afternoon Sarah drove to the grocery store because they were out of milk.
She sat in the parking lot for seven minutes after buying it.
She did not cry.
She scrolled through nothing on her phone.
An elderly man loaded two cases of sparkling water into a Honda. A woman in leggings argued with someone through earbuds. A teenager pushed carts across slushy pavement and kicked one wheel when it stuck.
Sarah had spent months imagining divorce as a border she would cross.
On one side, unbearable marriage.
On the other, relief.
Instead there was a supermarket parking lot.
Milk in the passenger seat.
A text from Daniel asking whether Leo could bring Randall to the apartment.
A voicemail from her attorney reminding her the office reopened Monday.
Life did not reorganize itself around the most important thing happening to you.
She started the car.
Tuesday arrived.
Daniel loaded the last of his clothes into two plastic storage bins and a duffel bag.
Leo watched from the stairs.
Sarah stood in the hallway.
There was no clean way to do it.
Daniel had already moved his desk, some books, tools, and a television. What remained looked offensively small for sixteen years of marriage.
Clothes.
Shoes.
A framed photo of his college friends.
A box of cables Sarah had asked him to throw away since 2018.
His grandfather’s watch.
Three coffee mugs.
He reached for the framed family picture on the bookshelf, then stopped.
Sarah saw him.
“Take it.”
He looked at her.
“I wasn’t sure.”
“Take it.”
Leo came down two steps.
“Which picture?”
Daniel showed him.
It was from the beach two summers earlier. Leo stood between them in orange swim trunks, holding a crab shell. Sarah’s hair had blown across her face. Daniel was squinting.
Leo said, “There’s another copy.”
Sarah looked at him.
“How do you know?”
“I printed one for school last year.”
He went upstairs and returned with the duplicate from his desk drawer.
He handed it to Sarah.
“There.”
Daniel laughed once, softly.
Leo looked annoyed.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You laughed.”
“I know. It was just very you.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means you solved a problem none of us solved.”
Leo looked between them.
“Okay.”
Daniel carried the picture to the car.
When he returned, Leo stood in the living room beside the large unopened Christmas gift.
“I’m not taking that.”
Daniel followed his gaze.
“That’s okay.”
“What is it?”
“You want me to tell you?”
“Yes.”
“A telescope.”
Leo looked at the box.
“I thought so.”
Sarah frowned.
“How?”
“The shape.”
Daniel said, “Telescope boxes are not a recognizable shape.”
“They are if you looked at telescopes online.”
“You were checking my search history?”
“You left the tab open.”
Daniel sighed.
“Of course I did.”
Leo touched the package with one foot.
May you like
“Keep it here.”
“It’s yours,” Sarah said.
