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An awkward silence meets his breathily uttered proposal, and then Maria stands. She glances once toward our table—as if waiting for opposition?—then straightens her back and moves to the stage. She takes the microphone from him. “Yes.”
The audience erupts into applause, and Ethan and I do too, but we’re still staring at one another. Still trapped in our own moment, waiting to be allowed to carry on.
Everyone sips their champagne, their wine, their beer, their whiskey.
Ethan’s eyes beg me to explain what’s wrong, so I do.
“When will you tell me you’re leaving Mansfield?”
We leave our cars in town and split a taxi back. It’s three in the morning when we get home.
Cress and Ford are sparkling with energy, like they could stay up until dawn. They walk slowly up to the house, dark heads thrown toward the Milky Way. Ethan and I trail silently behind.
Ford breaks from the path to climb a tree. He plucks a pear and tosses one to Cress, who catches it laughing. “Are they ripe yet?”
Ford bites into another one and spits it out. “Nope. Another few weeks. Nice up here, though.” He admires the view from the tree, leaning back on the trunk and hooking his hands behind his head. “Any of you want to join me?”
Cress passes her unripe pear to Ethan, who takes it, smiling gently. “Isn’t it a bit late for tree climbing?”
“It’s always too early or too late for something. I won’t let time tell me what to do.”
I wish I could claim the same so confidently. But it’s officially Saturday, and by Monday . . .
I grab Ethan by the wrist and drag him into the house. His pulse ticks wildly under my fingers, like a clock. A countdown.
We emerge onto our balcony.
It’s breezier up here; reluctantly, I let Ethan go so we can huddle into our suit jackets. We round the turret to the spot that’s sheltered most from the wind. Below us, the night-shadowed front lawn, moonlight touching the swaying leaves of the pear tree where Cress and Ford are perched, respectfully quiet. Their whispers don’t reach us, and ours won’t reach them.
“I’ll be here all the time.” His eyes are dark, sombre. “During the day, when Dad’s at work. I just won’t . . . eat here. Sleep here.”
It won’t be the same. Rationally, I can’t put a finger on what distresses me so much. We’re not sleeping in each other’s beds anymore anyway.
This should make things easier.
My foot taps and taps. I can’t shake off this . . . this disappointment. “I’ll get a job and we’ll pay the rent Tom wants together.”
He shakes his head. “This is the natural course of things, Fin. I was always going to move out. So are you. A few weeks won’t change that.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I didn’t want you grieving before you had to.”
“So you admit it’ll be different?”
“It’s the first real step of separation. Our lives are forking.”
I expel a frustrated breath. “Where are you moving to? Can I come with you?”
He wants to say yes, I can see in his eyes he wants to say yes. “That would be—” he swallows. “Too tempting for me.”
“Why do we have to change?” I whisper. “Why can’t everyone else just change around us?”
We’re quiet for long beats, looking down on our friends below. My throat is raw.
“So. Cress, huh?”
“She’s a good person.”
My stomach twists. I stare at the pear in his hand. He’s still holding it, for her.
“She likes you, too,” he continues. “That’s important to me.”
I slam my eyes shut. My voice doesn’t sound like my own. “Her idea at dinner . . . about franchising early childhood centres. Did you like it?”
No. Say no. Say you won’t let her change you.
“I mean, if I could still teach . . .”
My throat is so sore from swallowing. “I think I’m beat. I gotta . . .”
Ethan opens the door for me.
I inhale his scent as I pass. I don’t look back.
You have only to say one word and I would know your voice among all other voices.
K. Mansfield, “A Dill Pickle”
If a story can help me forget, even for a few minutes, it’s worth it.
I take my kindle to the river and sit back against a tree. Ethan has come and gone from his swim hours ago, so it’s just me, and right now that’s all I want. To sit in the shade on a beautiful day, dwelling in the lushness of the grass, the light reflecting off the river . . . it should be perfect.
I read a page. Two.
Every breath tastes like water and sunshine. And yet.
I rest my head back and laugh at myself. Here? I come here for mental space and clarity. I’m a fool.
I heave myself up and drift back to the house. Mum hails me to help her chase Julia into some clothes and it’s a team effort to wrangle pants and a t-shirt on her. She’s giggling the whole time though; my frustration bleeds away until I’m shaking my head at her in amusement. “You know, you can’t run around so wildly if you want the butterflies to sit on you.”
