Chapter 11
1242 Words
(Eric's POV)
She spots my car, crosses the street, opens the passenger door, and drops into the seat. Her bag lands between her feet. She smells like coffee and clean laundry.
"You're early," she says.
"Two minutes."
"That counts."
I pull into traffic. She leans her head back against the seat and closes her eyes for a second, and something in her face loosens. Like she's been holding it tight all day and just now, in this car, she's letting go.
"Long day?" I ask.
"Last two days of my notice."
I almost miss the turn. "Wait — you resigned?"
"Gave my notice Monday. Thursday's my last day."
"From Clark Industries."
"Yes."
I glance at her. She's looking out the window, watching the buildings slide past. Her face is calm. Not happy, not sad. Just... settled.
"Rebecca, that's — are you sure? You worked hard for that position."
She laughs. Short. Dry. "Everyone keeps telling me that."
"Because it's true."
"The position was a joke, Eric. I was his secretary. I made his coffee and sorted his mail and adjusted his lights and he told his assistant to make sure nobody found out I was his wife." She says it flat, like she's reading the weather. "I wasn't building anything. I was maintaining someone else's comfort."
I don't say anything. There's nothing to say to that. She's right, and we both know it.
"There's something else," she says. She turns to look at me. "I filed for divorce."
The car is suddenly very quiet.
"You — when?"
"Few days ago. Left the papers with his nanny. He hasn't opened them yet, as far as I know."
"Does he know you're—"
"Leaving? No." She turns back to the window. "He's at the beach with Hannah."
She says Hannah's name the way you say the name of a street you used to live on. No heat. No bitterness. Just a place she doesn't go anymore.
"Rebecca." I stop at a red light and look at her. Really look at her, the way I always have, the way I can't help doing. "Have you thought this through?"
"For six years."
"That's not what I—"
"I know what you mean." She meets my eyes. Hers are clear. No tears, no waver, no second-guessing. "Eric, I would rather live by myself than spend one more day with someone who doesn't love me. I already know what alone feels like. I've been alone in a house with two other people in it. At least this way, I won't live on impossible expectations."
The light turns green. I drive.
Something in my chest is expanding. I'm trying to keep it small, keep it contained, because this is not the moment and she is not in a place where I should be feeling what I'm feeling. She just told me she's divorcing her husband. She's hurting. The last thing she needs is me standing in her doorway with flowers.
But the voice in the back of my head — the one I've been arguing with for six years — says: She's free. She's leaving him. She's sitting in your car, going to a robotics exhibition, doing the things she used to do when she was the person you fell in love with.
I tell the voice to shut up.
Not yet. Not now.
But maybe someday. If she wants. If she gets to the other side of this and looks around and sees me standing there, the way I've always been standing there.
"So," I say, keeping my voice light. "Does this mean you're coming to RobotX?"
She looks at me. And for the first time today, she almost smiles.
"Ask me again on Friday."
I can live with that.
(Sean's POV)
The house is quiet when we get home.
Jack runs inside ahead of me, shoes off at the door, straight for the TV. I set our bags down in the hallway and look around. The air smells different. Not bad — just... less.
The jasmine candle in the living room. It's burned down to nothing. A thin ring of wax sits at the bottom of the glass. Rebecca usually replaces it before it gets this low.
I toss my keys on the counter. Nancy appears from the kitchen.
"Mr. Clark, welcome home. Can I get you anything?"
"I'm fine. Is the house alright?"
"Yes, sir. Everything's in order." She folds her hands in front of her. She's doing the thing she does when she wants to say something but isn't sure I want to hear it. "Mrs. Clark's envelope is on your desk."
"Right. The report." I head toward my office. "Thanks, Nancy."
The envelope is sitting in the center of my desk, propped up against the lamp. Brown manila. No label, no company header. That's strange. Rebecca usually puts a sticky note on everything — the subject, the date, which project it belongs to. This one is plain.
I pick it up, turn it over. It's sealed. I slide my thumb under the flap—
My phone rings.
Hannah.
I set the envelope down and answer.
"Sean, hi. Are you home?"
"Just got back. What's up?"
"So — Stanford University's robotics exhibition opened today. I've been following their lineup for weeks. Seth mentioned some of the presenters, and there are a few companies I'd love to introduce myself to." She pauses. "I know you just got back. But would you come with me this afternoon? I could really use the moral support."
I lean against my desk. The envelope feels light in my hand.
"Today?"
"This afternoon. It runs until eight. We could go for a couple hours, be back by dinner."
I just got home. I haven't even unpacked. The house feels off — too quiet, too still. Rebecca's been at the office, apparently, but she hasn't called. I should probably unpack. Open the envelope. See what she left.
But Hannah's been struggling. She lost her teaching position last year, and she's been trying to get her footing back in the field. She doesn't ask me for much. And it's just a couple hours.
"Sure," I say. "I'll pick you up in an hour."
"Really? Thank you, Sean. That means a lot."
"Of course."
I hang up. Put the envelope back on the desk.
Whatever report Rebecca left, it can wait. I'll open it tonight.
I go to the kitchen to make tea.
The kettle boils. I open the pantry and find the loose-leaf oolong on the second shelf. I scoop some into the strainer, pour the water, and set a timer on my phone.
Four minutes.
I don't know why I know that. I just do.
The tea comes out too dark. Bitter. I add more water, but it doesn't fix it. Something about the ratio is off. I drink it anyway, standing at the counter, looking at the kitchen.
The humidifier in the corner is off. I don't remember the last time I heard it running. And the coat hooks by the door — my coat, Jack's jacket. The third hook is empty.
I finish my tea, rinse the cup, and put it in the sink.
I grab my keys and stop by the kitchen. "Nancy, if Rebecca comes home before I'm back, tell her I'll open her report tonight."
Nancy looks at me. She opens her mouth, then closes it.
"Yes, sir," she says.
I walk out the door.
- Writer
