The Things We Leave Behind

The rental truck was already three hours late when Marcus found the hat—a faded blue baseball cap with 'Dad's 50th' written in Sharpie that was now cracked and peeling. It had rolled beneath the couch during the packing, alongside three dog-eared paperbacks and a single shoelace.

Sarah's dog, Buster, watched him with those patient brown eyes from his bed by the door. The dog had known something was wrong for days, following Marcus from room to room as if his presence alone could undo whatever had broken between them.

'You're really going?' Sarah's voice came from the doorway. She was wearing his sweatshirt—the one she'd stolen three years ago on their first real date, a swimming hole in the Berkshires where they'd stayed until dawn, talking about everything and nothing.

Marcus nodded, unable to meet her eyes. 'The cable guy is coming at three. I left the forwarding address on the fridge.'

'That's it?' She stepped closer, and he could smell the vanilla shampoo she'd used since college, the one he'd bought her for Valentine's Day every year because it was the only thing she ever asked for. 'Eight years, and all I get is a forwarding address?'

He straightened up, his back cracking. 'What do you want me to say, Sarah? That I'm sorry? That I wish things were different?' He laughed bitterly. 'I stopped swimming in that particular river months ago. We've been drowning together, and neither of us would admit it.'

She was crying now, silently. The dog stood up and walked to her, pressing his warm side against her leg. Buster had always chosen her, even in the beginning.

Marcus picked up the hat and turned it over in his hands. His father had worn this to every single one of his Little League games, through rain and heat and that one time Marcus had been hit by a pitch and cried for twenty minutes while his dad held him on the bench. Some things you carried with you whether you wanted to or not.

'Keep it,' he said, tossing the hat onto the couch. 'Maybe the next guy's dad will have better handwriting.'

Sarah's laugh was half-sob, half-gasp. 'Marcus—'

'Don't.' He shouldered his bag. The rental truck's horn echoed from outside. 'Just don't.'

He walked past her, past the dog who had finally stopped following him, out into the gray afternoon where the rest of his life was waiting, three hours late and smelling of diesel.