That made my decision easy.
I drove past.
Found a hotel beside the interstate.
Checked in.
The room smelled faintly like industrial detergent and air-conditioning.
I sat on the edge of the bed.
Then I took off my wedding ring.
I did not decide anything dramatic.
I just did not want it touching my hand.
I placed it on the bedside table.
I stayed there three days.
Work.
Hotel.
Takeout.
Sleep.
Repeat.
Laura sent dozens of messages.
“I’m sorry.”
“Please come home.”
“We need to talk.”
“I know I hurt you.”
“You’re misunderstanding why I came back.”
“I choose you.”
“Please answer.”
Then:
“Running away doesn’t fix anything.”
Then:
“I’m starting to get angry that you won’t even talk.”
Then back to:
“I’m sorry.”
Her sister texted too.
“Nathan, she messed up.”
“But disappearing is not helping.”
“At least hear her out.”
I blocked Megan temporarily.
Not permanently.
I just could not handle anyone lobbying for the marriage.
On day three, I went home while Laura was at work.
Murphy greeted me like I had returned from war.
I sat on the floor hugging him for several minutes.
Then packed a suitcase.
Clothes.
Laptop.
Medication.
Important documents.
A few personal things.
I stood in the closet looking at my side.
Nine years of marriage had turned packing into a philosophical problem.
What belonged to me?
What belonged to us?
Which objects meant something?
Which did not?
I packed enough for one week.
Left everything else.
Then I took my wedding ring from my pocket.
I had carried it there since the hotel.
I placed it on the kitchen counter.
That was not meant theatrically.
I simply did not want to lose it.
Laura came home early.
I was putting my suitcase into my car.
She got out before fully closing her door.
“What are you doing?”
“Leaving.”
“For how long?”
“I don’t know.”
“You cannot just move out.”
I looked at her.
“You moved out for two weeks.”
“That’s different.”
“How?”
“I came back.”
“And I might too.”
She flinched.
“That’s cruel.”
“No.”
“What you did was cruel.”
“This is a consequence.”
Laura walked closer.
“We need to talk.”
“Then tell me everything.”
She stopped.
“Everything what?”
“The trip.”
“No editing.”
“No protecting me.”
“No ‘details don’t matter.’”
“What happened?”
She began crying again.
I waited.
Finally:
“We were together.”
“I know.”
“No.”
She said.
“I mean together.”
“The first few days really were just talking.”
“We hiked.”
“We cooked.”
“We talked about college.”
“Our breakup.”
“His marriage.”
“You.”
“My stomach tightened.
“What about me?”
“I told him we were having problems.”
“Were we?”