He stared up at the third-floor window. The light was on.
He was still living out of his suitcase at the Highway Inn, surrounded by lemon cleaner and regret. He hadn't stepped foot in this apartment, and he didn't plan to stay.
He grabbed the thick manila envelope from the passenger seat. He didn't take his keys or his coat. This wasn't a visit. It was an eviction of her from his life.
He took the stairs two at a time, fueled by a mixture of adrenaline and exhaustion. He pounded on door 3B.
"Harrison?" Emily’s voice came from the other side, muffled. "Is that you?"
"Open the door, Emily."
The lock clicked, and the door swung open.
Emily was wearing one of his old oversized t-shirts—one she must have stolen from the house weeks ago—and a pair of socks. Her hair was up in a messy bun, and she held a half-eaten apple. She smiled, looking relieved and disturbingly domestic.
"You didn't answer my texts," she said, stepping back to let him in. "I was getting worried. Did you bring the—"
"Stop," Harrison said, stepping into the small, beigeliving room. It smelled of vanilla candles, a scent she used to mask the smell of stale air. "Stop talking."
He didn't close the door all the way. He wanted a quick exit.
"Harrison, what’s wrong?" She took a bite of the apple, chewing slowly, eyeing the envelope in his hand.
"This," he said, slamming the envelope onto the cheap laminate dining table. "This is what’s wrong."
"What is it?"
"My divorce petition," he spat out. "Sarah had me served at work today. In front of my entire team. In front of the interns."
Emily glanced at the papers, then back at him. She didn't look devastated. She looked... pragmatic.
"Well," she swallowed. "That’s fast. But it’s good, right? No more limbo. Now you don't have to worry about when she finds out. She knows. It’s done."
"You don't get it," Harrison said, his voice rising. "I didn't come here to celebrate. I came here to tell you to stop."
He pointed a finger at her.
"Stop texting me. Stop calling me asking for money. Stop sending me pictures of apartments we are never going to live in."
Emily’s smile faltered. She lowered the apple. "Harrison, you're just stressed. You're staying in that gross motel and it's getting to you. Just move in here. It’s not much, but there’s room and—"
"There is no 'here' for me!" Harrison shouted. "I am not moving in with you. I am done, Emily. I am waking up."
He ran a hand down his face, his skin pulling with fatigue.
"I destroyed my marriage. I lost my home. I am likelygoing to lose a massive chunk of my savings. And every time I look at you... I don't see a future. I see the mistake that cost me everything."
"That’s cruel," Emily whispered, her eyes tearing up. "You don't mean that. You love me. You said I was the air you breathe."
"I was suffocating!" Harrison countered. "And I was high on the drama. But I'm sober now. And I want you to leave me alone."
He backed toward the door. "I paid the rent on this place for the month. Consider it a severance package. After this, you're on your own. Go back to Michael. Go to your friends. Just stay the hell away from me."
"You can't leave me," she said, her voice trembling. "Harrison, please."
"Watch me." He turned, grabbing the doorknob.
"I'm pregnant."
