4. The Beginning of the End #2
“When we met, my life was terrible. I was broken watching my father beat my mother. It felt like I was trapped with no way to escape. Then you came...The school’s most wanted.
You had the perfect life, with your perfect parents and your perfect brothers that would do anything for you. And…you let me in.”
“What are you saying, Katelyn? You only got with me to escape your family?”
“No! No. I loved you. I did.” Loved . The words cut through Trevor like a knife. He felt all of the air leave his body.
“Loved. Wow. You don’t love me anymore?” He hated the way his voice pleaded with her to change her mind, but Katelyn’s back went ramrod straight as she doubled down on her admission.
“Somehow along the way, while helping you chase your dreams and forgetting mine, the love I felt changed.”
“I never asked you to forget your dreams! I begged you to go to school and to get into nursing like you wanted. My family was here to help you. You decided to stay home.”
“I know! Don’t you think I fucking know that?!” She yelled.
“Aye, watch who the fuck you’re talking to. You may be getting dicked down by those white boys at that firm, but I’m still your husband. Treat me with respect.”
“I never wanted this,” she said solemnly. The words came out swift, sharpened by a year of regrets.
“I didn’t want this life. I didn’t want to be a mom.
I didn’t want to be someone’s wife doing pancakes and school newsletters.
I’m twenty-six with nothing to show for it.
I thought getting pregnant was cool because you were the hottest boy in school and I one upped every girl.
But that hype is played out now. I don’t want this.
” The confession stung, but the smug look on Katelyn's face showed she meant every word.
Trevor’s body went very still. Then it was colder than still. He didn’t move his face, it held in place like a camera on a locked off tripod.
Katelyn kept going, “I have been seeing someone. The Finance VP at Whitmore. He makes my life make sense. I feel alive with him in a way I never feel here. I want a divorce.” The last word dropped to a whisper.
The whisper did not matter. It traveled the hall like a shout. Trevor let out a laugh, the pain in his heart did nothing to quiet the humor that burned through him.
“You know, for one of your favorite movies to be The Family That Preys , you cannot be that gahdamn dumb. But you know what? Maybe you are. I cannot wait to see how this story plays out.”
Trevor saw the shape in the doorway first. A small shadow inside a larger one. He turned and found Zara in the archway with the blanket from her bed wrapped around her shoulders. Eyes wet. Nose pink. Lower lip tucked inside her teeth the way she did when she was trying not to cry.
His heart slammed. He moved before his brain could catch up.
“Hey.” He went down on one knee, so his eyes met hers. He kept his voice level even though his pulse had broken every rule. “You couldn’t sleep?”
“I heard voices,” she said. The wobble in her words cut him in half. “Are you and Mommy mad at each other?”
Trevor breathed. “We are talking. Grown up talking can sound loud sometimes. You’re safe, Baby.”
Her tears fell harder. “Are you leaving?”
He swallowed. He drew her into his chest and felt the heat of her fever through the blanket and his T-shirt. “No. I’m not leaving you. I’m not leaving you, ever.”
She nodded into his collar and sobbed twice like her body had to let it out before it could believe him. He picked her up. She curled against him with the heavy trust of a child who loved without calculation.
He carried her upstairs. He set her down in bed and stroked her hair back from her damp forehead.
He talked to her about silly things. The cartoon pig who wanted to be a pilot.
The plant she wanted for the living room.
Ice cream after the fever broke. The quiet spells you could cast with your breath when your heart was loud.
She listened. Her tears slowed. He handed her tissues and a glass of water.
He wiped her nose and kissed her temple.
“Daddy’s right here,” he said. “Right here.”
“Right here,” she repeated, more to herself than to him.
He sat on the floor beside her until her eyelids fell and stayed. He counted a full sixty breaths. He stood and tucked the blanket around her. He blew out a slow breath and let it empty him of the last of his restraint.
Downstairs, Katelyn had poured herself a glass of wine. The liquid clung to the side of the glass and looked like it wanted to climb out.
Trevor walked to the hall closet and pulled out the navy suitcase they used for weekends at his father’s place.
He set it on the runner and unzipped it with a sound that felt like a choice.
He went to the bedroom and opened drawers.
He did not throw. He did not toss. He folded with a precision that bordered on reverent and then put the folded things into the suitcase like evidence into a box.
He added shoes. Toiletries. The little black dress that had probably seen every rooftop this summer.
He took the jewelry box from the dresser and set it inside.
He zipped the case closed and wheeled it to the top of the stairs .
Katelyn stared at him like she did not recognize the man moving through her life. “What are you doing?”
“Getting you out.”
“You cannot kick me out of my house.”
“This is not your house,” he said in a calm voice. “It’s mine. My name is on the deed, thanks to Angelou‘s insistence. I should thank him for that. You are free to call a lawyer tomorrow. Tonight, you can go to your boyfriend. Or a hotel.”
“You are out of your mind.”
“I’m fed the fuck up,” he said, and it came out quiet. “You said you did not want this life. You said you wanted him. You said you wanted a divorce where our daughter could hear you. I will not let you set fire to this house and then take a nap in my bed.”
Her mouth opened. Closed. Then opened again. She looked around like the furniture might agree with her, “You cannot. You cannot do this.You are the one that asked for honesty. You can’t kick me out just because you did not like the answer!”
“That’s exactly what I’m doing.”
He rolled the suitcase down the stairs and out to the porch. The night air wrapped cold around his bare arms. He set the suitcase beside the door and walked back in. He grabbed her coat from the banister and held it out. She did not take it. He draped it over his arm and carried it out too.
When he returned, she stood in the foyer like a statue asked to move. The wineglass looked ridiculous in her hand. He reached past her and opened the door.
“Katelyn.”
She flinched at the sound of her name said like a period.
“Go.”
She stared at him for a long time. Something in her eyes shifted. Not anger. Not guilt. Something like calculation finally accepting it had been outmaneuvered. She set the glass on the console without looking where it landed. She walked past him. She picked up the suitcase and did not look back.
He closed the door. The latch clicked. The sound went through him and left a clean ache.
He stood very still in the foyer. He listened for Zara. He heard the humidifier. He heard his own heartbeat.
He locked the deadbolt.
He turned off the kitchen light. He washed the wineglass and set it upside down on the rack. He put the house back into order with small movements. He went upstairs and checked on his child. Her breath sawed softly. He touched her hair and the fever felt a little less sharp.
Back in the hall, he leaned his forehead against the wall and let his shoulders shake once. Just once. Then he straightened. He pulled his phone from his pocket and opened a new note titled To Do.
Call a lawyer in the morning.
Call the bank to change the accounts
Change the locks
Call Alicia about remote directing plan.
Pick up electrolyte pops.
Text Dad.
Text Jackson.
Text Angelou, Need P.I. info ASAP
Email the school a doctor’s note if needed.
Buy a plant for the living room.
He saved the note and slid the phone away. He walked to the bedroom and stopped in the doorway. The bed looked wrong. He took the pillows and shook them out like they had collected dust from a life that was over.
On the dresser, the framed photo of the three of them at the beach smiled at him with teeth that looked like lies. He turned it face down.
He went to the couch and lay there with a blanket and the house breathing around him.
He stared at the ceiling and counted backwards from one hundred.
Somewhere around seventy-one, he imagined a classroom washed in yellow and a teacher rolling a red apple in her hand.
He did not know why that image came to him now, only that it felt like the opposite of a door closing.
He slept.