Peter's old proposal—discarded in October, somehow resurrected by maternal panic and male confidence—hung between them like a decoration no one had asked to hang. He spoke of stability. He spoke of Albany. He spoke of a Thanksgiving table waiting with her place card still printed in her mother's careful calligraphy, as if paper could summon a person. He spoke of forgiveness as if Claire had committed a crime by wanting a road, by wanting weather, by wanting a life that did not fit inside a ledger. He did not ask about the Plymouth in the drift. He did not ask if she had been cold, or afraid, or lonely, or fed. He asked when she would be ready to leave, and whether Jack could recommend a reliable mechanic at dawn.
Claire looked at Jack's back, at the loose strand of hair, at the bird tattoo flexing as he scrubbed a pan that did not need scrubbing. She looked at Mae's photographs still scattered on the far end of the counter—Walter with his ladle, a family built on imperfect gravy and stubborn hope and crooked stairs. She looked at Peter and saw color-coded calendars stretching into forever like a prison sentence written in neat ink. She saw matching napkin rings. She saw herself disappearing politely, year after year, until even her makeup was chosen for someone else's idea of appropriate.
"I'm not going back with you," Claire said.
Peter blinked. Snowmelt dripped from his hat brim onto the linoleum. "You're being emotional. It's the storm. Sleep on it. In the morning you'll remember who you are."