Page 151 of Fault Lines
He shook his head, staring at the floor. “You want to know the truth? I’ve never been good enough for anybody. Not my mom, not my grandfather, not you. So don’t act like you’re surprised when I fuck it up.”
For a long minute, we just stood there, the only sound the rain beating on the window and the distant clatter of the espresso machine.
“Maybe you should talk to someone,” I said, barely above a whisper. “A counselor. Just for a little while.”
He laughed, hollow. “Right. So I can unload all my bullshit on some stranger and pretend it’ll get better?”
“It could get better,” I said, desperate now. “If you let it.”
He slammed his fist down on the desk, making me jump. “You don’t get it, Livi. You never fucking get it. I’m not your project. You can’t fix me.”
I took a step back. “I’m not trying to fix you, Nate. I just want you to be okay.”
He looked at me, really looked, and for a moment I thought he might break down, or apologize, or do anything except what he did next.
He grabbed his jacket and stormed out, the door slamming so hard the walls shook.
I stood in the silence that followed, listening to the echo fade. My hands trembled. I didn’t know whether to be angry or afraid or just exhausted by the effort of keeping everything together.
I stared at the stain on the counter, the ring of coffee slowly bleeding out into the wood. I could have cleaned it, but I didn’t.
Instead, I went to the front of the store, propped myself up on the stool, and waited for the next customer to walk in, pretending not to notice the emptiness spreading out behind me.
∞∞∞
We didn’t talk much for the next few days. Nate didn’t come home the first night, or the second. When he finally did, it was after midnight, and he crept in as if the hallway might shatter under his weight. He crawled into bed beside me and lay still, breathing the sour stink of gin onto my neck, and didn’t say a word.
I should have left. I thought about it, about packing a bag and finding somewhere else to sleep, but I was tired. I was tired of running, of starting over, of the endless churn of heartbreak and hope and loss. So I stayed, and told myself that maybe tomorrow would be better.
It wasn’t.
The final divorce papers arrived on a Thursday. Everything had taken much longer than anticipated, so I was surprised when I actually got them. I found the envelope wedged in the mailbox; the address block printed in that inhuman, legal font that promised nothing good. For a long time, I stood on the stoop in the drizzle, staring at the return address. I didn’t want to open it. I didn’t want to know what was inside.
But I did, of course. I always did.
The apartment was dark when I got back, the air inside stale and unwelcoming. Nate wasn’t home yet. I set the envelope on the kitchen table and circled it for an hour, cleaning already clean counters, organizing the spice rack, anything to keep my hands busy and my mind off what I was about to sign.
By the time I tore the flap open, my hands shook so badly I could barely hold the pages flat. The instructions were simple: sign and date, then drop it in the prepaid return envelope. No lawyer, no notary, no one to witness the end except me.
I stared at the blank signature line. I’d practiced this moment in my head for weeks—how I’d be brave, how I’d do it without flinching, how I’d prove to the universe that I was not the kind of woman who lived and died by the love of a man. But my heart had other plans. My body remembered every soft night with Cam, every dumb fight, every stupid inside-joke, and none of the reasons I had for leaving could keep the tears from coming.
I signed anyway. The ink bled a little where my hand trembled, but I pressed down, hard, until the letters looked almost carved.
I didn’t cry right away. That came later, after I’d set the paperwork in the envelope and shoved it to the back of the junk drawer. It was past ten by then. I sat at the table in the dark, listening to the hum of the refrigerator and the distant sirens and the buzz of my own sadness.
Nate came in around eleven, slamming the door behind him like he was trying to wake the dead. He tossed his jacket at the wall, missed the hook by a foot, then stumbled to the fridge for a beer.
I watched him from the table, silent.
He drank half the bottle before he noticed me. “You’re up,” he said, slurring the edges of the words.
I nodded. “Papers came today.”
He frowned, then shrugged. “Guess that’s it, huh.”
I braced for him to say something else—something kind, or angry, or just human—but he only tipped the bottle to his lips again and drained it.
The rage didn’t come right away. At first, he just stared at the counter, picking at the label on his beer. But after he opened another, he started to pace.
