Chapter 2 - The Forehead Kiss
Friday morning arrived under an overcast, gray Ohio sky that smelled of rain and wet asphalt.
Dylan’s alarm rang at 5:30 a.m. He sprang out of bed with an energy I hadn't seen from him in months. When we went to the Outer Banks two summers ago for our anniversary, he had dragged his feet, complained about the seven-hour drive, and spent four of the five days answering emails from his irrigation sub-contractors on the balcony.
Today, he was humming under his breath while he shaved.
I sat propped up against the pillows in our master bedroom, wearing my oversized gray robe, watching him splash sandalwood cologne on his neck. It was the expensive French cologne I had bought him for Christmas two years ago—the bottle he claimed he only saved for ""special occasions.""
""The Uber should be here in fifteen minutes,"" Dylan said, buttoning up a crisp white linen shirt. He examined himself in the full-length mirror, adjusting his collar, turning slightly to check his profile. He looked handsome. He looked like the man I had fallen in love with on a rainy campus lawn outside Thompson Library eight years ago.
""Make sure you lock the patio door when you leave for the hospital,"" he said without turning around. ""The neighbor said there was a strange van idling down near the cul-de-sac yesterday.""
""I'll remember,"" I replied. My voice was completely flat, drained of any inflection.
He picked up his lightweight bomber jacket, grabbed the sleek navy-blue suitcase by the handle, and rolled it out toward the hallway. He paused at the doorway, as if suddenly remembering an obligation he had nearly overlooked, and walked back over to my side of the bed.
He bent down. His cologne hit me first—sharp, woodsy, and suffocating. Then he pressed a dry, careless kiss against the center of my forehead.
""Don't overthink things, Amanda,"" he whispered softly, his hand resting briefly on my shoulder with all the intimacy of a manager patting a reliable clerk. ""Seriously. Get some takeout tonight, have some wine with your sister, and relax. I’ll text you when we touch down in Miami.""
""Have the trip you deserve, Dylan,"" I said clearly.
He grinned, clearly misinterpreting my words as capitulation. ""Thanks, babe. I knew you'd come around. See you next Friday.""
The front door clicked shut. The sound of his rolling suitcase clattered down the concrete steps of our front porch. A minute later, a car door thudded shut at the curb, an engine hummed, and the quiet suburban stillness swallowed our house whole.
I didn't blink. I didn't cry.
I threw back the duvet, stood up, and looked at the digital clock on the bedside table: 6:58 a.m.
At exactly 7:15 a.m., a large white moving van backed into our driveway, its reverse alarm sounding a rhythmic beep-beep-beep that pierced the morning mist.
My younger sister, Chloe, hopped out of the passenger seat wearing sneakers, work gloves, and an oversized flannel shirt. My cousin Marcus climbed out of the driver's side. Chloe didn't say a word when she pushed open the front door. She just walked straight into my arms, wrapped me in a fierce, breathless hug, and whispered, ""Are we really doing this?""
""Every single bit of it,"" I said, pulling back and handing her a thick roll of packing tape. ""The lease on the apartment starts today. The movers have four hours before the real estate agent comes by to inspect the staging.""
""Let's strip it clean,"" Marcus said, rolling two heavy-duty furniture dollies up the front steps.
We didn't touch anything that belonged exclusively to Dylan. His clothes remained hung neatly in his half of the master closet. His high school football trophies stayed on his office shelves. His expensive fly-fishing rods remained untouched in the basement corner.
Everything else, however, belonged to me.
The vintage oak dining table my grandmother had willed to me. The velvet couch I had paid for with three months of overtime bonuses. The espresso machine, the Dutch ovens, the framed watercolor paintings my mother had made, the high-thread-count Egyptian cotton sheets, and the rugs I had picked out myself.
By 11:30 a.m., the master closet told the entire story of our marriage.
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Dylan’s half was completely full: his work flannels, his tailored suits, his weekend pullovers hanging in immaculate order.
My half was a cavern of bare wooden rods and empty wire hangers that chimed softly against each other whenever a cool autumn draft swept through the open hallway window.
