Chapter 3 - The Quiet Retreat
"Emily, wait!" Nathan yelled as I turned my back on the room. "You can't just leave me here! I'm your husband!"
"Not anymore," I said to the hallway.
I walked away. I didn't rush. I placed one foot in front of the other, focusing on the linoleum tiles, counting them. One, two, three, four. My breath felt shallow, but I refused to gasp. I refused to give the hospital corridor my tears.
Julian walked beside me, matching my slow, deliberate pace.
When we reached the automatic doors of the emergency room, the cold rain hit my face, and the adrenaline suddenly evaporated, leaving behind a bone-deep exhaustion. I stumbled slightly.
Julian caught my elbow instantly, supporting my weight.
"I've got you," he murmured. "I've got you, Em."
He guided me into the passenger seat of his car, turned the heat all the way up, and shut the door. When he got into the driver's seat, he didn't start the engine immediately. He just sat there, his hands resting on the steering wheel, looking out into the dark parking lot.
"Do you want to scream?" Julian asked quietly. "Because the windows are soundproof."
I leaned my head against the cool glass of the window.
"No," I whispered. "If I scream, I give him my energy. He doesn't get any more of my energy."
Julian turned his head to look at me. In the dim light of the dashboard, his eyes were incredibly sad, but fiercely protective. "What do you want to do?"
"I want to go home. I want to pack his bags. And I want to change the locks before the sun comes up."
Julian didn't question it. He started the car.
The drive back was faster. The rain had slowed to a drizzle. When we walked into my house, the amber lamp was still glowing on Nathan’s side of the bed. It felt like a relic from a different century.
I went straight to the closet. I pulled out three large suitcases and threw them onto the floor.
"Julian," I called out.
He appeared in the bedroom doorway.
"Start with his suits," I said, pointing to the closet. "I'll get the shoes."
For the next two hours, in near silence, the pediatric cardiologist who had been my brother's best friend helped me dismantle my husband's presence in my home. We folded, we shoved, we zipped. We packed away the cologne, the custom shoes, the expensive watches, and the lies.
By 5:30 a.m., six suitcases sat stacked by the front door.
I called an emergency 24-hour locksmith. They arrived at 6:15 a.m.
By 7:00 a.m., the old keys were useless.
I sat on the living room sofa, a mug of tea Julian had made resting in my hands, and watched the gray morning light creep through the windows.
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"He's going to call," Julian said, sitting in the armchair opposite me. "When they discharge him, he's going to come here."
"Let him," I said, taking a sip of the tea. "The bags are on the porch. The door is locked. He has nowhere to come back to."
