“Why?”
“Because I don’t know if you’re sleeping here.”
Her face changed.
“You want me to go?”
“I don’t know.”
“Where?”
I looked at her.
“You had somewhere picked out.”
That hit hard.
She lowered her head.
I immediately regretted saying it.
Not because it was false.
Because cruelty felt good for half a second.
That scared me.
I did not want to become somebody who lived for making her feel what I felt.
I rubbed my face.
“Call your sister.”
She looked up.
“What?”
“Call the person you lied about.”
“Why?”
“Because I need space.”
Her lips trembled.
“You want me to leave tonight.”
“Yes.”
“With her?”
“Yes.”
She picked up her phone.
Then stopped.
“What do I tell her?”
For the first time that night, I almost smiled.
Not happily.
“You could try the truth.”
My wife called.
Her sister answered.
I heard only one side.
“Can I stay with you?”
Pause.
“No.”
Pause.
“I’m okay.”
Another pause.
My wife started crying again.
“No, he didn’t do anything.”
Pause.
“It was me.”
She closed her eyes.
“I’ll tell you when I get there.”
Her sister apparently agreed.
My wife ended the call.
She looked at me.
“I’m going.”
I nodded.
She picked up the suitcase.
Then stopped beside the door.
“Do you want my key?”
I had not considered that.
The question made everything feel suddenly serious.
Real.
“No.”
She stared.
“You still live here.”
Her eyes filled.
I added:
“For now.”
She nodded.
Then walked out.
The door closed.
I stood in the foyer alone.
There was no dramatic collapse.
No punching walls.
No breaking furniture.
I simply stood there.
Then I returned to the table.
The receipt was still lying beneath the pendant light.
Riverton Grand Hotel.
September fourteenth.
$587.
One room.
Two breakfasts.
Overnight parking.
I sat down.
And stared at it until midnight.
At twelve seventeen, something occurred to me.
The receipt number.
There was a membership identification printed beneath the hotel logo.
Preferred guest.
I frowned.
Preferred.
First visit?
Maybe.
Hotels gave memberships automatically sometimes.
But beneath that was something else.
Stay credit: 4 of 10.
I stared.
Four.
Maybe it meant four nights toward some loyalty reward.
Maybe it meant nothing.
I searched the hotel program on my phone.
Ten qualifying nights earned a complimentary weekend.
Stay credit four of ten meant exactly what I thought.
Four qualifying nights.
My wife had told me September fourteenth was the first hotel.
The receipt said otherwise.
I felt strangely numb.