Storm Weather

The glass of water sat between us, condensation weeping down the sides like we'd done an hour ago. Sarah's eyes were red-rimmed, her makeup smeared, and I thought about how many times I'd watched her cry over five years. This time felt different—finaler.

Outside, lightning fractured the sky, illuminating the cardboard boxes stacked near the door. Our shared life, reduced to labeled containers. BOOKS. KITCHEN. HIS.

"What about Chester?" she asked, and it took me a second to remember she meant the dog, not some coworker I'd never heard of. The beagle mix was currently wedged between us on the couch, head on Sarah's thigh, tail thumping against my knee like a metronome counting down our final minutes.

"You take him," I said. "Your building allows pets."

"And Barnaby?" The cat, who hated me. Who'd spent years sleeping on Sarah's pillow and deliberately knocking my phone off the nightstand.

"Both. Just—take them both."

I wanted to be the kind of person who fought for custody of the animals, but I also wanted to be the kind of person who didn't get divorced at thirty-four. Apparently, I was neither.

The first raindrops hit the windows, nervous tapping that would soon become a roar. Summer storms in the Midwest were like bad breakups—they built slowly, then destroyed everything in sight.

"Remember when we got caught in that storm?" Sarah asked suddenly. "In Galveston? We ran back to the hotel, completely soaked, and you said—"

"—I said we'd laugh about it someday."

We didn't laugh.

Chester whined, sensing something. Barnaby materialized from the bedroom, jumped onto the coffee table, and knocked over the water glass. It spilled across the surface, dripping onto the rug that we'd spent three weeks choosing together, and I thought: there it was. The mess neither of us would clean up.

"I should go," she said, standing. The dog's claws clicked against hardwood as he followed her, a small betrayal that stung more than it should have.

"Yeah."

She carried the cat to her carrier. Chester followed her to the door like he'd already chosen sides.

"You'll be okay?" she asked, one hand on the doorknob.

"Sure."

I watched her load the animals into her Camry, orange work vest glowing in the darkness. Lightning struck somewhere close, and for a second, the whole world went white. When my vision cleared, her taillights were already fading down the street.

Inside, I sat on the couch alone. The house felt huge. Quiet. I could hear the water dripping from the table to the floor, methodical as a clock.

Somehow, this was exactly what I'd wanted. And somehow, it was exactly what I'd feared.

I got a towel. Started cleaning up.