“Do you want to stay at my place?”
“No.”
“Want me to stay at yours?”
“No.”
“Want to drink?”
“No.”
“Want me to stop asking stupid questions?”
“Yes.”
He nodded.
“Finally something I can do.”
After that, he checked on me every evening without making me talk.
Sometimes friendship is just somebody refusing to let you disappear quietly.
By day ten, Laura’s messages stopped.
Nothing Monday.
Nothing Tuesday.
Nothing Wednesday.
I called twice.
Voicemail.
I sent:
“Please tell me you’re okay.”
No answer.
That night I slept maybe forty minutes.
I considered calling hotels.
Michael.
Her sister.
Police.
Then stopped myself.
She was an adult who had chosen to leave.
If she wanted me to know where she was, she knew how.
On day thirteen, one message appeared.
“Coming home tomorrow.”
“We need to talk.”
I read it while standing beside my desk at work.
My hands immediately turned cold.
Chris noticed.
“What?”
“She’s coming back.”
He looked at me.
“That good?”
“I don’t know.”
That was becoming the answer to everything.
Laura arrived at 6:30 Tuesday evening.
I heard her key in the front door.
Murphy lost his mind.
He ran toward her, tail hitting the wall.
Laura dropped her bag and knelt.
“Oh, buddy.”
She hugged him.
I stood in the kitchen.
When she looked up, my first thought was that she looked happy.
Not guilty.
Not wrecked.
Happy.
Tanned.
Rested.
Calm.
More peaceful than she had looked in months.
That hurt in a way I was not prepared for.
She stood and hugged me.
I kept my arms at my sides.
Laura felt it.
She stepped back.
“How are you?”
I almost laughed.
“How was it?”
She swallowed.
“Good.”
“Really good.”
“I’m glad I went.”
There it was again.
Good.
“Did you get closure?”
“I think so.”
She picked up her suitcase.
“I’m going to unpack.”
I watched her carry it upstairs.
For twenty minutes, she moved around the bedroom putting clothes away.
Normal motions.
Hang shirts.
Laundry basket.
Toiletries returned to drawers.
It was surreal.
I wanted the room to look different because my marriage felt different.
Instead, the same shampoo bottle went back into the shower.
The same pajamas into the drawer.
Laura behaved as if reinserting objects into their places might restore everything else.
“Are we going to talk?”
I asked.
She looked tired.
“Can I shower first?”
I nodded.
I made pasta.
Why?
I still do not know.
Habit, probably.
At seven-thirty, we sat at the kitchen table.
Laura wore sweatpants and one of my old college T-shirts.
That almost made me angry.
She twirled pasta around her fork but barely ate.
I finally said:
“Tell me.”
She put the fork down.
“We talked.”
“A lot.”
“About?”
“Everything.”
“Our relationship.”