Actually.
That one word bothered me.
Not someone who excites me.
Someone who actually excites me.
Meaning I didn't.
Maybe hadn't for a long time.
Eventually darkness covered the water.
I went inside.
Claire was lying on the bed looking at her phone.
She immediately turned the screen away when I entered.
That hurt more than it should have.
I opened my laptop.
"What are you doing?"
"Changing my flight."
She watched me.
I searched.
There was one seat available the following evening.
Three hundred and seventeen dollars to change.
Normally I would've complained for twenty minutes.
I entered my credit card information without hesitation.
When the confirmation email arrived, I stared at it.
It felt like receiving divorce papers from a marriage we'd never had.
Claire said quietly, "You really booked it."
"Yeah."
"Tomorrow."
"Yeah."
She put her phone down.
"Daniel."
I looked at her.
For a second, something softened in her face.
Then she said, "I didn't want it to happen like this."
I closed my laptop.
"Neither did I."
We slept in the same room that night.
If sleeping is the right word.
Claire stayed on her side.
I stayed on mine.
There was more distance between us in that king-sized hotel bed than there had ever been between us across entire countries.
Around one in the morning, she got up.
I heard the balcony door slide open.
I almost followed her.
Almost asked whether she was absolutely certain.
Almost told her four years deserved more than twenty-four hours of excitement.
But I didn't.
Around three, she returned.
Neither of us spoke.
She left early the next morning.
I woke when the hotel door closed.
No note.
No message.
I checked my phone.
Nothing.
I knew where she was going.
I packed slowly.
I folded every shirt.
Organized cables.
Counted socks.
Put toiletries into plastic bags.
I treated packing like precision work because anything requiring concentration kept me from thinking too much.
Every few minutes, another memory would appear.
Claire dancing barefoot in our kitchen.
Claire asleep against my shoulder during a movie.
Claire telling my mother she wanted to learn her lasagna recipe.
Claire pointing to houses during drives and saying, "That porch. That's what I want."
I kept folding clothes.
At nine-thirty, I went downstairs alone.
The hostess at breakfast asked, "Just one?"
I nearly laughed.
"Yeah."
Just one.
I ordered eggs.
Coffee.
Fruit.
I ate almost nothing.
At the table beside me, a couple argued quietly because the husband had forgotten sunscreen.
She accused him of never remembering anything.
He told her she had packed four suitcases and could've put sunscreen in one herself.
Normally I would've been annoyed.
Instead I wanted to tell them to enjoy the argument.
You're arguing about sunscreen.
You have no idea how lucky you are.
I spent several hours beside the pool.
I saw Claire once.
Across the far side.
She was sitting at the bar beside a man I didn't recognize.
He looked a few years older than us.
Tall.
Tan.
Expensive sunglasses.
They were leaning toward each other.
Claire laughed.
That laugh.
The same full, unrestrained laugh I'd loved.
I looked away.
That was the moment it became real.
Until then, some part of me still treated the previous conversation like a nightmare.
Seeing them together removed the last illusion.
I went upstairs.
Claire returned around four.