He hesitated. She froze, eyes locked on the window crank above the faucet.
“That’s the tricky part.”
“Tricky?” She turned the water off with her forearm and wiped her hands on the towel hanging on the bar in front of the sink. She remembered a restaurant she’d gone to in San Francisco, years before. Delfina? That was it. She’d had delicious sourdough bread there, painted with butter. Fragrant, crisp-on-the-outside Saffron Arancini. Bright fresh salad with real oil and good vinegar and fresh cracked pepper.
She was avoiding it.
There was no denying that the food scene by the bay was on a par with New York City, and though Calvin would probably not join her, she could picture getting carryout for herself now and then.
Maybe even sitting in a nice little café with a book and a sandwich or pasta. And real cheese instead of the no-fat stuff Calvin put on his air-popped popcorn on “special occasions.”
He wasn’t saying anything bad. That was in her head.
“Yeah.” He seemed to be musing to himself. “Tricky.”
She fluffed up his salad and handed it over.
“Elaborate.”
He took a short breath. “I guess I’m just going to have to be right up front with you. Fast and honest, like Robin says.”
A cold finger of dread ran down her spine. “Robin?”
“Yeah, you know Robin, my therapist?”
“Dr. Lang?” Since when did he call her Robin?
He gave a half shrug. “I’ve been seeing her so long that it seemed silly to keep calling her Dr. Lang.”
“Mm. Seeing Robin.” Her teeth were gritted hard. She forced them apart.
He nodded. “Yes, seeing my therapist.” He squinted and looked at her, and had the nerve to look irritated by her. Like she was being a bit much. “This new job,” he said. “The move. Everything. I’m . . . I’m going alone.” He took a bite, finally having the guts to look as avoidant as he was being. “Boy, this is good.”
This was a man who could find the good in that salad, but not in their marriage? Was she hearing correctly?
“What do you mean you’re going alone? To find a place to live? While I sell this place? Or . . . ?” She didn’t take her eyes off her husband, though his glances were flitting all over the place.
He pressed his lips together and shook his head. “No, it’s just me.” He closed his eyes for a moment and she just knew he was picturing “Robin,” who had probably coached him through this conversation, telling him he was entitled to it. “I’m leaving.”
The words rang through the acoustics of the kitchen. The echo had been a selling point when they first found the house. Margo had said “I’m married!” and listened to the way it bounced off the walls.
“I see,” she said now. It was all there was to say.
“Yeah, that wasn’t so hard. Just out with it and, boom, it’s over.” This seemed like an aside to himself, rather than to Margo.
The dryer finished its cycle and started its insanely long jingle. Never had it ever bothered her so much, and it almost always bothered her.
She gave a sharp inhale and shifted her gaze to the salad in front of him. The video she’d posted. An idiot woman makes a salad for the man who is about to divorce her and for her thirty-six geriatric YouTube followers.
Oh, what she’d give for him to have that heart attack he’d been dreading. Right now. Right here. The whole scene played out in rapid motion in her head: him clutching his chest, falling to the floor, trying to choke out the words “Call . . . nine . . . one . . .” while she pretended to not understand his request.
Nine one? I don’t understand. Who do you want to call?
“That was . . . easy?” she repeated his words. Her mouth felt numb. “Calvin, am I understanding this right? I can’t tell because you’re being super weird. Have you just said you are actually leaving me? Leaving our marriage? As in, you want a divorce?”
He replayed her question in his head, she could tell by the thoughtful look and three short nods before he said, “Yes.” Then, as a long afterthought, “I’m sorry. But it’s for the best.”
The nerve this took was unbelievable. “For whose best?” But she knew the answer. Throughout their entire marriage, they’d both done everything possible for his best.
“Well . . . mine for one.” He gave a quick smile, as if he’d said something amusing. “But yours too, you’ll see.”
She let the wave of rage flow over her flesh, and then she followed his gaze to the salad he clearly wanted to eat. Momentarily, she thought about dumping the whole lot into the trash. But she hated to waste food, even though he didn’t deserve to eat it and she didn’t have an appetite suddenly. Automatically, she went to the dishwasher and started emptying it, even though it hadn’t finished its eternal heated dry yet.
What was she doing?
Trying to feel normal, she guessed. There was no way this was really happening. No way.
“And is Robin part of your plan?” she asked. “Is Robin going with you?”
He scoffed. “She’s my therapist! Of course she’s not. In fact, she’s already referred me to a former colleague who works there, so, really, it’s working out perfectly. Meant to be.”
That’s what she’d thought once. Meant to be.
“Eat,” she said, shoving his bowl closer as she passed him. “You’re going to need your energy.”
“For what?” He took a big bite and rolled his eyes in bliss. “You’ve really gotten so good at this lean stuff.”
She gathered her internal strength, vision blurring. “Packing and getting the hell out of here.”
He shook his head, chewing. “I don’t have to leave right away,” he said with a mouthful.
“Oh yes, you do.” Seeing how much he was enjoying her food enraged her. It was probably more accurate to say it pulled the pin on the anger that was already tightening deep beneath her disbelief, but whatever caused it, she found herself unable to fight it. “In fact, you’ve got three seconds to eat whatever else you’re going to eat there before you’re wearing it.”
He looked genuinely shocked. “Margo, this isn’t like you!”
“Correction: this isn’t like Margo your wife.” The flames of fury engulfed her. She couldn’t believe this was happening, and that it was happening so . . . so casually. “Let me introduce you to Margo your ex-wife.”
“Can’t we be friends?”
The idea that they could suddenly shift baffled her violently.
“No.” She picked up the bowl and dumped the whole thing in his lap, careful to make sure the oily dressing saturated his shirt. She looked him over and clicked her tongue against her teeth. “Get yourself cleaned up, Calvin, honestly, you’re a mess. Oh, and you have half an hour to pack what you want and get out. If you don’t, I’ll call the police. I don’t know if they’ll be able to enforce anything, but I do know that will embarrass you to death, and if there’s one thing you hate, it’s being embarrassed.” She walked out of the room, shaking inside but hoping he couldn’t tell from the outside.
“My dinner,” he said stupidly, still sitting in the position she’d left him in.