“The one from your office,” I said, before I could lose my nerve. “The one who calls at midnight and hangs up when I answer.”
His jaw tightened. “You’ve been spying on me now?”
I almost laughed at that, but what came out of me was closer to grief. “I’ve been trying to save a marriage you already left.”
Something in him snapped then, or maybe it had snapped long ago and this was simply the first time he stopped pretending otherwise. He straightened, and the look he gave me was so empty of tenderness that I barely recognized the man I had once loved.
“You know what?” he said. “If you’re that unhappy here, leave.”
For a second, I truly thought I had misheard him. The words were too clean, too simple, too final to belong to ordinary marital anger. I stared at him, waiting for him to take them back, to soften, to say he didn’t mean it. He did none of those things.
“What?” I whispered.
“Go,” he said, pointing toward the front door with a calmness that frightened me more than shouting would have. “Take your things and get out.”