“Okay.” Nick stops under the cover of a large sycamore tree and turns to me. “Then I’ll be very real. I’mhere.And I know I’m going to be here, ten minutes from Nora, for the next nine years. That’s my life. When you have a kid, you give up control. You make that exchange and promise to doanything—give up anything—to make your child’s life a little bit better.”
“I get that.”
“But you didn’t agree to that. And I’d never ask you to. I stay here because of my daughter, but it would be selfish for me to ask you to stay here because ofme.Your mom isn’t wrong. There are hundreds of little practicalities we haven’t had to consider. I spend holidays with my daughter. I’m going to be there on Christmas morning to watch her open her presents. I haven’t taken a vacation for myself since Kira was born.”
“Maybe you should!” I shout. “Maybe you should take a vacation that isn’t kid-friendly or join some shitty cover band. The world won’t stop spinning if you’re a little selfish sometimes. You have a kid. You don’t have to be a martyr.”
Nick takes a deep breath and responds calmly, and I feel evenmore like I’ll never understand his point of view on this. “Someday, if you have your own little human that needseverythingfrom you, you’ll understand that there’s not even a split second of hesitation when it comes to your needs versus theirs.”
“Don’t they tell adults on planes to secure their own mask first before helping someone else?”
“If you think I’d be fumbling around with my mask while my kid was struggling to breathe, you don’t know me at all.”
Rain picks up aroundus.
“A week ago you said you wanted me to stay.”
“No.” He shakes his head. “I said I’d be emotionally devastated if you left. And that’s whatIneed to deal with.”
“Why aren’t you fighting for me?” My face is about to crumple, I can feel it. I’m fighting it, but that’s just making the urge worse. “Ask me to stay,” I say again.
“I can’t. Because listening to your mom made me realize how fucking upset I would be if Kira was in this situation. And I wouldn’t want her to get involved with an older man with a kid and a failed marriage in the first place.”
“Well, you’re not my dad!” I’m not sure if I’m raising my voice to lash out or because the rain is getting louder. Or because it feels like he’s talking pastme.
“And you’re not being rational.”
“Nothing about this is rational. I’m telling you how I’mfeeling,and you’re being a fucking Spock when you’re supposed to be the…” The name won’t come to me because my head is swimming.
“Kirk.” He sighs. “We didn’t do this the right way, Sam. You said it yourself. The truth is, I can’t live with myself if I ask you to stay and you end up regretting it. I can’t be that guy.”
This has never happened to me—someone telling me exactly why they no longer want to be together. Either I’ve beenghosted or I’ve intuited what was about to happen, surreptitiously gathered all my belongings from their apartment, and ended things myself. Quick and sharp. Wasn’t the guillotine only supposed to hurt for half a second?
This feels more like a slow asphyxiation. Nick is still talking and I’m disassociating.
“If this is meant to be,” he’s saying, “maybe it’ll come back around.”
But I can’t imagine the circumstances where we’d find our way back to each other organically. I grip the tissue-wrapped gift in my hand. I don’t think I’ll be opening this in front of Kira.
“No,” I say, snapping out of my spiral. “Don’t do that. Don’t leave any door open like it’s just up to fate when this is a choice you’re making. I don’t want any lingering threads. I don’t want to be sitting there, wondering what you’re doing, thinking about calling you. I can’t do that. I don’t want any maybes. For the last five years, I’ve been living with a giantmaybehanging over my head. I let myself believe you were thisrock.I can’t take a maybe from you. The only way I can move on is if you just—” I drag my finger across my throat. “Or wherever the carotid is.”
His eyes are wet, so I turn my head to look at the trunk of the sycamore tree, watching the wind blow the branches until it looks like they’re about to snap. For a minute, I wait for him to say the actual words. Turns out, he doesn’t need to. When he turns to walk away, I know it’s over.
34
“Promise me one thing,” Romilysays, pulling over to the curb. “Don’t sit in the sad little lounge area before security waiting for Nick to show up. I can’t take the mental visual of you looking around at the entrance, all expectant.”
“I’m not doing that,” I say, sneaking a peek at the sliding doors, where bored-stressed-haggard-excited travelers are yanking their roller bags over an extension cord. “Just tying my shoe.” Which was already securely double knotted.
Once again, Romily and I are in parallel. She’s about to move out of the basement and closer to the Ohio State campus to pursue a master’s degree in applied statistics. I can’t help feeling a little jealous of her solid plan, practical area of study, and lack of messy romantic attachments that could color her decision making.
“Seriously,” she says. “Don’t torture yourself. Clean break. Fresh start, all that depressing bullshit. And don’t cry on the plane.”
I nod, knowing full well that I have never not cried on a plane while wistfully staring out the window or at the man in front of me watchingTop Gun: Maverick.There’s something about moving—literally the process of getting from point A to point B—that opens the floodgates. This time, I’m fully expecting to be a mess for the entirety of the ninety-minute flight.
After she leaves, I check my watch, and I cannot help mentally calculating how long the massive security line will take. There are people looped around the atrium—basically a line to enter the line. I let my TSA PreCheck lapse after the pandemic and now I’ve rejoined the rank and file of shoe-removing commoners. I pretend I’m reading something fascinating on my phone while keeping an eye on the entrance.
I have no right to expect Nick to come bursting through those doors, glancing left and right for a woman who looks like me, scanning the security lines.
