Page 4 of A World Without You
ONE
Five Years Later
Tuesday, November 21st
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THE FRONT DOOR CLICKSshut, and he slips off his boots. They each land with athud, thud. I imagine the caked-on mud and snow falling from the treads without even being in the entryway.
I glance from the shadows of him on the wall, back to the shadows created by the fire, focusing on every crackle of each flame as I pet our dog, Bowser, resting next to me. Then I fix my eyes on the empty wine glasses and an unopened bottle of wine on the counter next to the divorce papers awaiting his signature. Maybe the wine was an unnecessary and insensitive touch, but if we’re going to sever our marriage, I’d like us to leave things amicable.
“How was the hunting trip?” I ask, his heavy footsteps moving closer to me as he enters the family room.
“Fine,” he grunts, clearly thrilled to see me.
“Get anything?”
He grunts again, and I nod. “Better luck next year, I suppose.”
“Yeah,” he muses as he opens the refrigerator, examining its contents. I note the fact he hasn’t come to greet me.
He glances at the papers as he rounds the kitchen island, unflinching. They aren’t a surprise. It’s been a long time coming. This is just the finality of it. I filed months ago. He begged me not to leave. I begged him to let me go.
“What’dyoueat for dinner?” he asks, ignoring the inevitable demise of us and what once was.
I glance back at him. “Teriyaki chicken and rice.”
“No leftovers?”
I shake my head, realizing a cry is trapped in my chest.
“I didn’t realize you’d be back in time to eat,” I say instead of picking a fight. I hate the expectation of it.Where’s dinner? What did you cook? What can I eat?I grit my teeth and bite my tongue. Just one more day of this and then I go home.
He nods and shuffles over to the pantry. I watch him carefully. The way his flannel tugs at his shoulder muscles. The days-old stubble on his face from his four-day hunting trip. He hasn’t removed his hat yet, but I know his thick brown hair curls at the tips after being stuffed under a beanie for days at a time.
“Glad to be home?” I ask.
He nods, but he still hasn’t looked at me. “God, I’m so hungry. I’m going to order a pizza,” he says, pulling his phone out with one hand and scrubbing another down his face.
