“I told him the same day.” “And me?” Emily said nothing.
Nathan laughed again, but there was no humor in it. “Right.” She leaned forward. “I was going to tell you.”
“Stop saying that.” “I was.” “People who are going to tell someone do not wait through an entire pregnancy, birth, first birthday, and eighteen months of childhood.”
Emily's shoulders folded inward. Nathan looked toward the front door. He could walk out. The thought came with almost magnetic force.
He had nowhere specific to go, but the house no longer felt like safety. He needed distance before grief converted itself into something uglier. “I am leaving,” he said. Emily stood.
“Nathan, please. You just got home.” He looked at her in disbelief. “Exactly.”
“Where will you go?” “I don't know.” “Please don't drive like this.”
“I've spent three years navigating places where one bad decision can get people killed. I can manage a rental car.” “You don't have to leave your own house.”
“I do tonight.” He walked back toward his bags. Emily followed three steps behind and then stopped when he raised one hand. “Do not touch me.”
She froze. Nathan saw the pain in her face and hated the part of himself that still wanted to comfort her. Love does not disappear on command just because trust does. That was perhaps the first cruelty of betrayal he learned: your attachment can survive the facts that destroy the relationship supporting it.
He picked up only the smaller travel bag, leaving the duffel and equipment case near the door. “When can we talk?” Emily asked. Nathan considered the question.
“Not tonight.” “Tomorrow?” “I don't know.”