He didn’t answer.
“When were you going to tell me?”
“Thanksgiving.”
I laughed.
I actually laughed.
“Thanksgiving.”
“I thought—”
“You thought you’d carve the turkey and hand me a moving date.”
“I thought you’d see it was already done.”
“And you’d see I was trying.”
“And you’d say yes.”
I stood up.
My chair scraped the floor.
“You didn’t want my answer, Nate.”
“You wanted my signature.”
He flinched like I’d hit him.
“My business is here,” I said.
“My clients are here.”
“I have eleven weddings booked through June.”
“Poppy’s school is here.”
“Her friends.”
“Her piano teacher.”
“My sister.”
“Your mother.”
“Our whole life is here.”
“And you picked a street for us.”
“You picked a school for our daughter.”
“You picked a kitchen I’ll cook in.”
“Without me.”
“I was trying to save us.”
“No.”
“You were trying to save yourself from saying it out loud.”
He stared at me.
