Page 92 of Don't Tell

She turns and walks to the bedroom.

I follow her.

She is pulling the duffel from the closet. She is putting things in it — the pajamas she wore last night, a sweater of hers that has been on the chair by the window since Tuesday, the sketchbook from the nightstand.

I stand in the doorway.

I watch her pack.

She does not take the locket.

I'm trying to find the words to say.

"Suzanne."

"Don't."

"You don't have to do this."

"I do."

"I'll tell him."

She doesn’t turn around.

"I'll tell him, Suzanne. I'll do it tomorrow. I'll go to him. I'll tell him the whole thing. I'll do whatever you want."

"You're saying that now because I'm leaving."

"That is not — "

"You're saying it because the door is in your hand, not because you decided it was right. You decided it was right when I started to pack."

"Suzanne."

She zips the duffel and walks past me.

I follow her.

She is at the front door, putting on her coat and reaching for the handle.

"Suzanne."

She stops.

She does not turn around.

I take a breath.

"I love you."

The words are out before I knew I was going to say them.

I have not said them. I have not said them once in any room and place. I have said every other word a man can say. I have said "I want you" and "I need you" and everything else, but I have not said the one that mattered.

I have said it now in the foyer, into her back, with her hand on the door.

She is silent for one long second.