I have no plan, no fix-it checklist. I’m standing in an empty house, watching the world unravel.
“This is what Brendan kept checking in about,” I whisper, the roar of blood in my ears starting anew. “He was waiting for you to tell me.”
The muscles in Libby’s jaw flex, an admission of guilt.
“The list,” I choke out. “This trip. That’s what this was all about? You’re leaving and this whole elaborate game of Simon Says was some fucked-up goodbye?”
“It’s not like that,” she murmurs.
“What about the lawyer?” I say. “How does she fit into this?”
“The what?”
The world sways. “The divorce attorney, the one Sally gave you the number for.”
Understanding dawns across her face. “A friend of hers,” she says feebly, “who knew about a good preschool here.”
I press my hands to the sides of my head.
They’re looking at schools.
They’re looking at houses.
“How long have you known?” I ask.
“It happened fast,” she says.
“How long, Libby?”
Breath rushes out between her lips. “Since a few days before we made the plans to come here.”
“And there’s no way out of it?” I rub my forehead. “I mean, if it’s money—”
“I don’t want out of it, Nora.” She crosses her arms over her chest. “I made this decision.”
“But you just said it happened fast. You haven’t had time to think about this.”
“As soon as we decided Brendan would apply for the job, it felt right,” she says. “We’re tired of being on top of each other. We’re tired of sharing one bathroom—we’re tired of being tired. We want to spread out. We want our kids to be able to play in the woods!”
“Because Lyme disease is such a blast?” I demand.
“I want to know that if something goes wrong, we’re not trapped on an island with millions of other people, all trying to get away.”
“I’m on that island, Libby!”
Her face goes white, her voice shattering. “I know that.”
“New York’s our home. Those millions of other people are—are our family. And the museums, and the galleries, and the High Line, skating at Rockefeller Center—the Broadway shows? You’re fine just giving all that up?”
Giving me up.
“It’s not like that, Nora,” she says. “We just started looking at houses and everything came together—”
“Holy shit.” I turn away, dizzy. My arms are heavy and numb, but my heart is clattering around like a bowling ball on a roller coaster. “Do you already own this house?”
She doesn’t reply.
I spin back. “Libby, did you buy a house without even telling me?”
She says softly, “We don’t close until the end of the week.”
I step backward, swallowing, like I can force everything that’s already been said back down, reverse time. “I have to go.”
“Where?” she demands.
“I don’t know.” I shake my head. “Anywhere else.”
* * *
I recognize this street: a row of fifties-style ranches with well-tended gardens, pine-covered mountains jutting up at their backs.
The sun’s melting into the horizon like peach ice cream, and the smell of roses drifts over the breeze. A few yards over, a half dozen kids run, shrieking and laughing, through a sprinkler.
It’s beautiful.
I want to be anywhere else.
Libby doesn’t follow me. I didn’t expect her to.
In thirty years, I’ve never walked away from a fight with her—she’s been the one I’ve had to chase, when things were bad at school or she’d gone through a particularly rough breakup in those dark, endless years after we lost Mom.
I’m the one who follows.
I just never thought I’d have to follow her so far, or lose her entirely.
It’s happening again. The stinging in my nose, the spasms in my chest. My vision blurs until the flower bushes go bleary and the kids’ laughter warbles.
I head toward home.
Not home, I think.
My next thought is so much worse: What home?
It reverberates through me, rings of panic rippling outward. Home has always been Mom and Libby and me.
Home is striped blue-and-white towels on the hot sand at Coney Island. It’s the tequila bar where I took Libby after her exams, to dance all night. Coffee and croissants in Prospect Park.