When Claire Bennett saw Natalie’s Facebook post about buying swimsuits for “a surprise January getaway,” she already knew where Natalie was going. She just didn’t know how the woman had managed to invade this particular corner of her life too. Then she saw the laughing palm-tree emoji beneath the words, and the cold feeling in her stomach told her the answer before Michael ever opened his mouth.
Chapter 3
Claire removed the ring slowly. She expected her hands to shake, but they did not. She placed it on the dining table between them, and the tiny click of metal against wood sounded louder than all the arguments they had ever had.
“I’ll leave in the morning.”
Michael stared at the ring. “What?”
“I’m going to call my brother.”
“Claire, stop. This is getting completely out of hand.”
“No. I think it finally got simple.”
He followed her as she walked toward the bedroom. “You asked me a hypothetical question after pushing me for an answer. I gave you a stupid answer. That doesn’t mean I want Natalie back.”
Claire opened the closet and took down a suitcase. “Maybe you don’t. That isn’t even the point anymore.”
“Then what is?”
“You left the door open.”
“For what?”
“For her. All this time, there has been a door open somewhere, and I’ve been standing outside it pretending not to see.”
Michael grabbed the suitcase before she could place it on the bed. “We’re getting married.”
“Not anymore.”
“We talked about having a baby.”
“I know.”
“We picked venues.”
“I know.”
“You love Owen.”
At that, Claire’s composure cracked.
She sat on the edge of the bed and covered her mouth. Of all the things she was losing, Owen was the one she had tried hardest not to think about. He was innocent in this mess, an eight-year-old boy who had once asked whether he could call her his “bonus mom” because “stepmom sounds like somebody in a fairy tale who locks you in a tower.”
“I do love him,” she said.
Michael crouched in front of her. His eyes were wet now. “Then don’t do this to all of us.”
Claire lowered her hands. “Don’t make Owen responsible for keeping me in a relationship where I’m unhappy.”
“I’m not.”
“You just did.”
Michael sat beside her. “We can go to counseling.”
She looked at him.
“We’ll start in January,” he continued quickly. “I mean it. We’ll find somebody good. We’ll work on boundaries. I’ll talk to Natalie. I’ll talk to my parents. We can fix this.”
Claire almost said yes.
The impulse came from habit, love, fear, and the old dangerous hope that people became different when they realized you were serious about leaving. She imagined unpacking the suitcase, letting Michael hold her, waking the next morning embarrassed by the drama but relieved that the wedding was still coming.
Then she remembered his answer.
I guess I’d consider it.
“You didn’t say you’d choose me until I was already leaving,” she said.
“I chose you when I proposed.”
“A proposal isn’t a boundary.”
Michael began crying then, quietly at first. Claire had seen him tear up at his grandmother’s funeral and when Owen broke his arm, but she had never watched him cry because of her. The sight nearly undid her.
“Please don’t end it permanently,” he said. “Go stay with your brother for a few days if you need to. But don’t decide our whole future tonight.”
Claire wanted to comfort him. That was another habit she had to resist.
“I’m not deciding tonight,” she said. “I’ve been deciding one small piece at a time for two years. Tonight I just finally understand the answer.”
They barely slept. Michael stayed downstairs while Claire packed clothes, toiletries, important papers, and the few sentimental things she could not bear to leave behind. At three in the morning she sat on the bedroom floor with an old photograph of the three of them at a Rockies game and cried so hard she had to press a towel against her face to keep from making noise.
At six, she called her brother, David.
He answered on the second ring, his voice thick with sleep. “Claire? Everything okay?”
“No.”
That single word was enough.
David did not ask her to justify herself. He did not tell her relationships were complicated or that Christmas was a terrible time to make a decision. He simply said, “Come here. Rachel and I will clear out the guest room.”
By seven-thirty, Michael was in the kitchen making eggs and toast.
Claire stood in the doorway with her coat on and her suitcase beside her. Seeing him at the stove made the situation feel almost absurdly ordinary. The coffee machine hissed, snow threatened beyond the windows, and a half-finished grocery list was still stuck to the refrigerator.
“I made breakfast,” Michael said.
“I’m not hungry.”
“You should eat something.”
“Michael.”
He turned off the burner.
For a moment they just looked at each other. Then he crossed the kitchen and wrapped his arms around her.
Claire went stiff.
That hurt him; she felt it in the way his body changed. He let her go.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered.
“Don’t be sorry. Stay.”
“I can’t.”
“Can we at least keep talking?”
She shook her head.
“Just until after Christmas?”
“No.”
His face crumpled again. “How can you walk away from two and a half years like this?”
“I’m not walking away because I don’t love you.” Claire wiped her cheek. “I’m walking away because loving you has required me to disappear a little at a time.”
He had no answer for that.
Before leaving, Claire went to the Christmas tree. Most of the presents underneath it had been purchased and wrapped by her, including a remote-control airplane Owen had been talking about since October. She considered taking Michael’s gifts back to the stores and returning everything she had bought for his parents.
Instead, she left them.
The relationship was over, but she did not want its last act to be punishment.
She placed Owen’s present closer to the front and ran her fingers over the tag.
Merry Christmas, buddy. Love, Claire.
Michael stood several feet behind her. “He’s going to ask where you are.”
“I know.”
“Will you come Christmas morning? Just for him?”
Claire closed her eyes.
If she came Christmas morning, Natalie would probably be there. Michael’s parents would be there. Owen would run to hug her, and someone would make coffee, and people would act hopeful, and the entire machine Claire was trying to escape would pull her back inside.
“No,” she said.
Michael looked devastated.
Claire picked up her suitcase and walked toward the door.
