Prologue #2
By three o'clock, I am idling in the school pickup lane.
My fingers tap against the steering wheel.
A nervous flutter blooms in my stomach. Tonight will be the turning point.
I will open the door in that red dress, and he will see me...
really see me. The silence that has been growing between us like mold will finally break.
The car doors fling open. Liam throws his backpack onto the floorboard first, stopping dead in his tracks as he climbs into the passenger seat.
"Woah," he says, his mouth dropping open. "Mom? You look... cool. Like a different person."
Ava slides into the back, her eyes lifting from her phone for a fraction of a second before she freezes. She blinks, a small, genuine smile breaking through her teenage armor. "Wow, Mom. It actually looks really good. You look younger."
My throat tightens, a prickle of heat behind my eyes. "Thanks, guys."
I and Ava do a quick loop through the house to grab their overnight bags, she says she’ll rather stay home with me, I agree.
I drop Liam and Nora off at my mother’s, with a flurry of kisses.
The drive back through the deepening dusk is quiet.
My mind runs through the menu... the roast chicken he loves, the wine we bought on our honeymoon that I've been saving.
I imagine his footsteps in the foyer. I imagine him stopping, his briefcase slipping from his hand as he looks at my collarbones, at the rich color of my hair.
He will reach for me. He will say he is sorry for the distance.
In the upstairs bathroom, the water runs hot enough to turn the white tiles opaque with steam.
I hum an old melody from our college days, a small smile lifting my lips as I run the razor over my legs.
The copper taste from this morning is gone.
Maybe tonight is the repair. For years, I have waited for him to come back to me.
I apply my makeup with slow, deliberate precision... a darker lip than usual, a touch of shadow to hide the fatigue. I slide into the crimson gown. The silk is cool against my skin, the high slit exposing the line of my thigh. It feels like a dare.
I walk downstairs. The dining table is set for two, the candles unlit, the food laid out under ceramic covers, waiting.
The microwave clock reads eight fifty-three when the front door key rattles.
Noah sets his leather briefcase on the bench. He loosens his silk tie, his long fingers undoing the top button as he heads straight for the refrigerator. "Hey," he says to the open shelves, his eyes scanning the cold glass.
"Hey," I say from the shadow of the hallway.
I wait for his eyes to find me... for the red fabric to catch his eyes, for the new weight of my hair against my collarbone. He does not look up. He pulls out a container of leftovers and sets it inside the microwave, pressing the buttons with a rhythmic beep. He says he is famished.
My knees feel weak. The room spins slightly behind a sudden, heavy film of tears. "Ava had news today," I say, my voice trembling against the itch in my throat. "At school. She got the lead in the spring showcase."
"That's great." The microwave bell chimes. He retrieves his plate.
"She wanted you to know."
"I'll tell her in the morning." Noah carries the plate to the island counter. He eats standing up, his thumb flicking across the glowing screen of his phone.
I turn back to the sink, picking up a stray glass to wash it again. Outside, a lone car speeds down the asphalt. The refrigerator compressor hums its steady, indifferent tune.
At nine thirty, he clears his throat and heads up the stairs.
I stand in the center of the kitchen for a long time. Today is my birthday... forty. It is also our fifteenth anniversary. He does not remember. Neither do I remind him.
I dry my fingers on the linen towel and hang it over the oven handle.
The first tear spills over my cheek, hot and fast. My legs give out entirely, and I drop to the linoleum floor with a heavy thud.
The house remains quiet... the sound does not bring him back down the stairs.
He likely thinks I am just cleaning, that I can manage myself as I always do in the kitchen.
A dry, bitter chuckle breaks from my throat. My nose begins to run. Suddenly, a wild, suffocating heat rises in my chest, and I scream... a raw, breathless sound. My fingers bunch into the red silk at my thigh, twisting and tearing the fabric open until it splits.
Eventually, the floor grows too cold. I drag myself to the living room couch. Sleep finds me in the dark.
I wake to the sound of pipes rattling... the upstairs shower running. The very first thought that enters my mind is simple and cold: he does not even care that I never came to bed.
In the absolute stillness of a house where everything looks fine and nothing is fine, I rise. I walk up the stairs and stand at the threshold of the bathroom. He is wrapped in a towel, checking his teeth in the mirror. I look at him from where I am standing.
"I want a divorce."
He stops, his hand dropping. "What?"
I do not offer the words a second time. He heard them. We both know the shape of them.
"Lily." Noah sets his phone on the marble counter. "Are you serious right now? Over what exactly?"
I look at him. I think of the bathroom mirror downstairs. The yellow Post-it note. The live stream comments. The chime of the microwave while I bled. Fifteen years of a man who did every single thing right on the corporate ledger, and absolutely nothing right under this roof.
I think about screaming the truth at him.
Instead, I sink my shoulders back and say nothing at all.
***
Third Person POV
Two days later, the white pages slide across the dark granite counter while the espresso machine begins to hiss.
They sit there... On top, a small square of yellow paper bears her neat, small script: Please sign.
Noah stares at the ink. He blinks twice, his hand hovering over the paper as if waiting for the text to change into something else. He picks them up, turns the stack over, and sets them back down in the exact same spot.
He stands alone in the kitchen, he bought to secure their future, holding the end of his marriage.
The coffee finishes its brew, dripping into the glass carafe, but he does not move to pour it.
Outside the heavy glass windows, New York moves with its usual, deafening roar.
Slowly his mind comes to a stop, all the noise shifts somewhere to the background, he goes entirely still.
His feet move towards the stairs. But he is scared to find her packing maybe, or even to find her packed out.
He thinks: I didn't see this coming.
He looks at the empty doorway.
Or I did... and I just looked away.