Chapter 4
At six on Saturday morning, I carried my suitcase downstairs.
The cup inside knocked softly against my shoes, and I stopped to tighten the sweater wrapped around it.
Ethan sat up on the living-room sofa.
"You're leaving?"
"Yes."
He looked at my coat, then at the laptop bag across my shoulder.
I had packed only what I could carry in one trip.
Behind him, the pharmacy bag he had brought home for Vanessa stood beside an untouched glass of water.
"Take the weekend," he said.
"We'll talk when you've calmed down."
I checked that my car keys were in my pocket.
"This isn't a weekend away."
For a moment, I thought he might ask where I would sleep.
Instead, he looked at my laptop bag.
"Before you go, I need the revised Westbridge drawings."
"The client meeting is Monday."
I let go of the suitcase handle.
The hotel lobby design was still open on my computer.
I had worked on it after meetings throughout my trip, turning down dinner with colleagues so I could send him revisions.
On Thursday, he had texted that I was a lifesaver.
That message had arrived while my clothes were being packed.
"I'm not finishing them."
"They're almost done."
"Your team has the preliminary files."
"They can take over."
His forehead creased.
He had been ready to let me leave until I mentioned the work.
"They don't know the design as well as you do."
"Then tell the client the schedule has changed."
"Claire, people are relying on us."
Upstairs, a door opened.
He looked toward the landing and lowered his voice, though he had not lowered it for me the night before.
"Don't do this here."
I picked up my suitcase.
One wheel caught on the edge of the rug.
Ethan watched me pull it free.
"You can be angry with me without hurting the company."
"I'm not coming back to finish your drawings."
I opened the front door.
He remained inside, one hand resting on the frame.
When I reached the car, he called after me to drive carefully.
I put the suitcase in the trunk and sat behind the wheel without starting the engine.
I did not know where I would spend the night.
I only knew that I would not spend it in the guest room.
On Monday morning, I met Maya Brooks.
I placed the deed, the prenuptial agreement, and the room-assignment sheet on the table.
"I want to file for divorce," I said.
She did not begin by explaining the house or the accounts.
She asked whether I was certain.
"Yes."
The petition was short.
Fourteen years of marriage fit into a few required lines: the date, the address, the statement that the relationship could not be repaired.
Maya turned to the signature page.
My phone lit beside it.
Did you send the Westbridge drawings?
I turned the phone facedown and signed my name.
Maya checked the signature and called her assistant in.
The petition left the room for filing.
Ethan's message stayed beneath the dark screen.