“They’ll be fine. I’ll send money.”
My hand curled around the edge of the counter.
“Money,” I repeated. “Rose is going to ask where her pancakes are tomorrow morning. You think a bank transfer answers that?”
He shook his head. “I’m not doing this.”
Then he turned and headed upstairs.
I followed.
Because there was no way I was letting him disappear from our family like a ghost walking down the hallway.
Our bedroom door was open. His suitcase sat on the bed, already half zipped, clothes folded far too neatly for someone who’d just decided to leave.
“You were never going to tell me, were you?” I asked.
“I was.”
“When? After the hotel? After the pictures showed up online?”
He didn’t answer.
I stood in the doorway, trembling. “You could’ve told me you were unhappy.”
“I am telling you,” he snapped. “I’m choosing my happiness.”
“And what about ours?”
His back stayed turned, shoulders stiff.
“I can’t do this with you, Paige,” he said. “You make everything messy.”
Something inside me finally snapped, like a rubber band stretched too tight.
“No, you made it messy the moment you started seeing someone else.”
He didn’t respond. He dragged the suitcase past me and walked out.
I didn’t chase him.
Instead, I stood at the window and watched his taillights disappear down the street without slowing once.
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