Chapter 15 - The Empty Back Seat
Six months after I smashed the truck window, Ryan picked me up for dinner.
Not a date.
We had stopped arguing over what to call things.
He pulled into my driveway at six.
I opened the passenger door.
Then looked into the back seat.
Empty.
He noticed.
“Checking?”
“Yes.”
“Fair.”
I got in.
We drove to a restaurant ten minutes away.
No therapist assignment.
No anniversary.
Just dinner.
Ryan had not moved home.
His apartment lease had three months left.
I had not filed for divorce.
I had met with an attorney once.
He knew.
I told him afterward.
Not because I needed permission.
Because I didn't want secrecy becoming my revenge.
Jenna was back in Arizona.
She had returned to work.
Some days were terrible.
Some apparently weren't.
The adoption remained open according to the arrangement she had chosen.
Hannah and Luke sent updates at agreed intervals.
Jenna decided which ones she shared with us.
Sometimes none.
Evelyn had learned not to ask me.
Ryan had learned not to ask Jenna more than once.
Progress was less satisfying than punishment.
Also more useful.
At dinner, Ryan told me his apartment refrigerator had stopped cooling.
I told him landlords existed.
He said he was aware.
We discussed my work.
His work.
A neighbor who kept parking across our mailbox.
Our mailbox.
I noticed the pronoun.
Said nothing.
After dinner, we drove back.
He pulled into the driveway and turned off the engine.
Neither of us moved.
Finally he said:
“My lease renewal is due next week.”
I looked ahead.
“Okay.”
“I’m not asking you to decide tonight.”
Good.
He continued:
“I’m telling you because I don't want to sign another year and then have you think I made a decision about us.”
I looked at him.
“So what are you asking?”
“What information do you want?”
That was new.
I thought.
“What's the shortest renewal?”
“Three months.”
“Can you afford it?”
“Yes.”
“Do you want to stay there?”
He thought.
“No.”
I appreciated the answer.
“Do you want to come home?”
“Yes.”
Also clear.
My throat tightened.
Then:
“Do you think you should?”
Long pause.
“I don't know.”
I looked at him.
He smiled faintly.
“Apparently useful.”
“Don't.”
He stopped smiling.
We sat.
Then my phone buzzed.
Jenna.
A photograph.
June sitting propped against Hannah’s legs, six months old, trying to eat one sock.
Under it:
She has decided fabric is food.
I laughed.
Ryan looked over.
“What?”
I hesitated.
The photo belonged to Jenna.
She had sent it to me.
Not him.
I typed:
Can I show Ryan?
Three dots appeared.
Then:
Yes.
I turned the phone.
Ryan looked.
His face changed.
Joy first.
Then grief.
Then something gentler.
“She got big.”
“Yes.”
He did not take the phone from my hand.
Did not ask me to send the picture.
After a few seconds, he looked away.
“Thanks.”
I locked the screen.
That tiny moment would have meant nothing to anyone watching from outside.
To me, it was one of the first times Ryan had wanted something and let wanting stop at the edge of somebody else's permission.
Maybe people change.
Maybe they learn better manners and call it change.
Maybe six months is nothing.
I didn't know.
Ryan got out of the truck.
Walked me to the door.
I unlocked it.
He stayed on the porch.
Once, he would have followed.
His old key no longer worked.
We had changed the locks after I smashed the window—not because I feared him, but because too many people had once had keys to a house where nobody asked enough questions.
Ryan put his hands in his jacket pockets.
“I’ll sign three months.”
I nodded.
“Okay.”
“Unless you want something else.”
I looked into the living room.
Our living room.
My living room right now.
The guest room upstairs was an office again.
The rocking chair was back downstairs.
No bassinet.
No nursery waiting to persuade anybody.
I turned toward him.
“I want three months.”
His face tightened.
Not rejection.
Not welcome.
Time.
He nodded.
“Then three months.”
He started down the steps.
“Ryan.”
He turned.
For a second I considered asking him inside.
I wanted to.
That did not make it the right decision.
Not yet.
“Good night.”
His expression softened.
“Good night, Claire.”
He walked to the truck.
I watched him get in.
For half a second, headlights illuminated the rear seat.
Empty.
No hidden car seat.
No secret plan strapped behind tinted glass.
Just space.
Ryan backed out.
At the end of the driveway, he stopped.
Not long.
Then drove away.
I went inside and locked the door.
Three months from now, I might invite him back.
I might sign divorce papers.
May you like
I might need three more months.
For once, nobody had already prepared the room for whichever answer they hoped I'd give.
