"No."
"Someone to help move things?"
That was my father.
Practical.
Probably where I got it.
"Maybe."
"I'm available Saturday."
"Thanks."
The hardest call was Sarah's mother.
Diane answered cheerfully.
"Alex! Did Sarah finally confirm the caterer? I've been texting her all morning."
I closed my eyes.
"No, Mrs. Miller."
She stopped.
I hadn't called her Mrs. Miller in years.
"What's wrong?"
"I'm calling to let you know the wedding is canceled."
Silence.
"What?"
"Sarah and I are no longer together."
"Alex, what happened?"
I looked toward the empty corkboard.
"You need to talk to Sarah."
"Did you two fight?"
"No."
"Can this be fixed?"
"No."
The certainty in my answer made her quiet.
"Alex."
"I'm sorry."
"Please don't apologize."
She sounded close to tears.
"Are you okay?"
"I will be."
"Can I ask one thing?"
"Sure."
"Did Sarah do something?"
I didn't want to destroy a mother with details.
But I also wasn't going to lie.
"Yes."
Diane breathed out slowly.
"I understand."
I wasn't sure she did.
We said goodbye.
Then I began packing Sarah's things.
At first, I planned to wait.
Then I realized I didn't want days of uncertainty.
Her clothes went into boxes.
Shoes.
Cosmetics.
Books.
Documents.
I carefully separated anything jointly purchased.
Nothing destroyed.
Nothing thrown away.
I put everything near the door.
Around four in the afternoon, Sarah finally texted.
My phone showed six messages.
Are you seriously canceling things?
My mom just called me.
What the hell, Alex?
We said we needed space.
You can't make decisions for both of us.
Call me.
I stared at the messages.
The irony was almost funny.
She had slept with another man for six weeks.
Told me she wasn't sorry.
Announced we were on different paths.
Then became angry because I had taken her seriously.
I sent one response.
Your things are at the apartment. I've handled the cancellations. Goodbye, Sarah.
She called immediately.
I silenced the phone.
Again.
Again.
Again.
Eventually it stopped.
That evening, she came to collect her things while my father was there.
He barely looked at her.
Sarah seemed angry.
"You're really doing this?"
I was taping a box.
"Yes."
"Five years."
"Yes."
"You're just throwing away five years."
I looked at her.
"No."
She waited.
"You did that."
Her mouth tightened.
"Liam and I have something real."
"Then you should be happy."
That wasn't the response she wanted.
"He understands me."
"Good."
"You don't care?"
I placed another piece of tape on the box.
"Not in the way you want me to."
Sarah looked toward my father.
He continued carrying boxes to her car as if she weren't there.
"This is so immature."
I laughed once.
"What would maturity look like?"
"Talking."
"We talked."
"No, you walked out."