“You’re coming with me,” you say, throwing my things in a bag. It’s early afternoon, and the thought of going through one more day like this threatens to do me in. I don’t want to fight anymore—if fighting is what you call not speaking to one another—I don’t want to live this way. And if irritation has its limit, when I see you standing there without a shirt on, packing my stuff, I know I’ve reached mine. It’s hard to stay mad at a person when they look like you.
“Where are we going?”
“San Francisco.”
I let my shoulders drop. “I hate California. You know that.”
“It isn’t a question, Kate,” you say, looking at me with equal parts confusion and amusement. “Clearly, I can’t leave you alone. Not unless I want to end up a widower raising two kids on my own.”
“So, you do love me after all,”
