Chapter 10
The door clicked behind Mara and the apartment went quiet in a different way. Not the tense quiet from before, with her hand on his chest and his arm around her shoulders. This was empty-quiet. The movers had stepped into the hallway for their break, their dolly leaning against the wall outside. I could hear one of them laughing softly on his phone.
Ryan stood near the stack of boxes taped and labeled in my handwriting. Old clothes. He didn't look at me at first. He looked at the cream sofa where Mara had been sitting. The cushion was still dented.
"She's gone," he said.
I nodded. I was standing by the large windows. The city lights were still blurred beyond the glass, just as they had been when I'd walked in with the suitcase. "She made her choice."
He let out a breath and sat down on the edge of the sofa, not leaning back. His navy shirt was wrinkled where Mara had held it. "Do you want me to wait outside while they finish?"
"No," I said. "We need to finish this part."
He stared at the boxes. For a long time neither of us moved. The air conditioner hummed.
"You asked me if I would really just leave," I said quietly.
He looked up. His eyes were tired. "I thought you were bluffing. With the suitcase."
"I wasn't."
He rubbed the back of his neck. "I didn't think you'd actually do it. I thought you'd come back and yell and then we'd figure it out."
I waited. That was the first time he'd said it out loud — that he'd expected me to be the one to leave.
He finally spoke, his voice low. "Mara started coming by in March. After your mom's surgery, when you were staying over there three nights a week. She was in the building for a client. We had coffee. It wasn't... it wasn't planned."
I didn't interrupt. I watched his hands.
"I told her this was my place," he went on. "It was easier. I liked how that sounded. 'This place is perfect.' Like I'd built it. I knew it wasn't true. The papers were always in your name. But when I said it, she believed it. And I wanted someone to believe it."
The honesty was small and late and it didn't fix anything, but I noted it. He wasn't asking me to forgive him. He was just placing the fact on the table between us.
I walked to where my rolling suitcase stood by the teal wall. Its extended handle was still up. I hadn't collapsed it since Night 0.
"You keep looking at that," he said.
"I packed it for me," I said.
He frowned. "What?"
I put my hand on the handle. "Before the papers. Before I knew. Two weeks ago, I packed this in our bedroom while you were at work. I thought I would be the one who had to go. I thought because you wanted her here, I'd have to find somewhere else. I had the papers for the storage unit in my left hand that night, not divorce filings. I was going to leave and let you have it."
He stared at the suitcase, then at me. Realization moved slowly across his face.
"I went to the county clerk that afternoon," I said. "Just to ask. The woman pulled the deed. She showed me the mortgage, the title. All of it was me. My dad's gift, my name. The lawyer said I didn't have to be the one to roll this out the door."
Ryan stood up slowly and came closer, but not too close. He looked at the suitcase like he was seeing it for the first time.
"So when you said 'I'm leaving,'" he said, his voice barely there, "you meant—"
"I meant I was leaving the marriage," I said. "Not the apartment. But you heard what you wanted to hear. 'So you'll really just leave?' You thought I was walking away from here and giving it to you."
He nodded once, a tight, painful nod. He understood now. The symbol had reversed.
"You were always leaving," he said. "One way or another. Either you were going to leave me the apartment, or you were going to make me leave it."
"Yes," I said.
We stood there with the boxes between us. The movers' voices in the hallway got louder — they were coming back. Ryan's phone buzzed on the sofa. He didn't pick it up.
"I'll have them out by five," he said. "Building wants the hall clear by six. I'll do what you asked."
"I know," I said.
He looked at the suitcase one last time. "You don't need it anymore."
May you like
"No," I said. "Now it's yours."
He didn't argue. He just pushed the handle down with a quiet click. It sounded final, not cruel. The break was over. The door to the hallway was about to open again.
