“How long?”
She rubbed one hand through her hair.
“I don’t know.”
“That is not an answer.”
“It became physical recently.”
“Recently means?”
“Two months.”
Dave had only confirmed what my body already knew.
Still, two months hurt.
“Emotional?”
Sarah looked at me.
Then something in her hardened.
Maybe shame.
Maybe defensiveness.
Sometimes people become cruel because cruelty gives them enough momentum to finish something they are afraid to do gently.
“I’ve been in love with someone else this whole time.”
I looked up.
“What whole time?”
“This relationship.”
“You and me?”
“Yes.”
My chest felt hollow.
“That’s impossible.”
“No.”
“I thought you were what I needed.”
“Stable.”
“Safe.”
“Supportive.”
“But I kept feeling like something was missing.”
“And Alex made me understand what.”
“What?”
“Passion.”
There was that word.
“Sarah.”
“You don’t have to do this like a speech.”
“I’m trying to explain.”
“No.”
“You’re trying to make what you did sound inevitable.”
Her face tightened.
“You asked for honesty.”
“Honesty is ‘I cheated.’”
“This is mythology.”
She stood.
“You never understood me.”
“I funded half the life you used to discover that.”
“I knew you’d make it about money.”
I laughed once.
Not because it was funny.
“Of course.”
“You are a great guy.”
She continued.
“You’re kind.”
“Reliable.”
“A rock.”
“But that’s the problem.”
“You’re a rock.”
“I need movement.”
“I need someone who understands risk.”
“Someone who lives the way I live.”
“Alex gets it.”
I looked at her.
For the first time in weeks, everything felt simple.
Not painless.
Simple.
Sarah did not want repair.
She wanted permission.
She wanted me to become the boring obstacle in the story she was telling herself.
Then she could leave without sitting inside the ugliness of what she had done.
“Alex and I have a cosmic connection.”
She said.
I almost felt embarrassed for both of us.
“Okay.”
That single word stopped her.
“What?”
“Okay.”
I stood.
“I wish you luck.”
Sarah stared.
“That’s it?”
“Yes.”
I walked into the bedroom.
Pulled a duffel bag from the closet.
Then another.
I had paid the larger portion of rent, but Sarah’s name was primary on the lease.
My friend Marcus owned a condo he was renovating before renting.
He had offered me the spare room weeks earlier when I joked about needing space.
I could leave.
So I did.
Shirts.
Jeans.
Work clothes.
Shoes.
Laptop.
Documents.
Books.
The framed photograph of my parents.
My tools.
I packed methodically because if I stopped moving, I might break.
Sarah appeared in the doorway.
“You’re seriously leaving?”
“Yes.”
“Right now?”
“Yes.”
“You don’t want to talk?”