When Ben packed his belongings, his parents came to help.
Andy found this particularly cruel, although he knew it wasn't their fault. They were trying to be
supportive. They were trying to make a difficult situation easier for their son. They probably
believed that this was what families did when a marriage ended: they arrived with boxes, carried
furniture, and helped someone move on.
Nobody had brought boxes for Andy.
He watched from the hallway as Ben folded clothes and packed books. His mother moved
between the bedroom and the living room, collecting things that belonged to Ben. His father
carried boxes to the car.
The whole process was painfully ordinary.
That was the thing about endings. They rarely arrived with the appropriate amount of ceremony.
You could spend years building a life with someone, and when it ended, the two of you might
find yourselves arguing over kitchen utensils or trying to remember whose name was on an
electricity bill.
Love could be complicated.
Moving boxes were not.
Ben picked up a framed photograph from the side table. It showed the two of them several
years earlier, standing close together and smiling at whoever had taken the picture.
Andy remembered that day. He remembered being happy. Not the kind of happiness people
describe in inspirational quotations, but the quieter sort that comes from believing you have
found your person. Someone to call when something funny happens. Someone to sit beside
when neither of you has anything to say. Someone who knows your habits and tolerates your
peculiarities.
Someone who, you assume, will still be there tomorrow.
Ben studied the photograph before turning it face down on the table.
Andy felt something inside him collapse.
"This really is for the best,
" Ben said.
Andy was crying by then. He had been crying for most of the morning, although he had tried to
keep it quiet because he didn't want to make the situation harder than it already was."Is it?"
Ben looked at him.
"We can't keep doing this.
"
Andy nodded.
"I know.
"
It was an absurd conversation. Both of them were standing in the house where they had lived
together, surrounded by the physical evidence of a life they had once intended to share
indefinitely, and they were speaking as though they were discussing a recurring problem with
the plumbing.
Perhaps that was how people survived the end of a relationship. They reduced it to manageable
sentences. They said things like this is for the best and we can't keep doing this because the
alternatives were too large to contemplate.
Ben picked up his bag.
"Take care of yourself, okay?"
Andy wanted to ask him how he was supposed to do that.
He wanted to ask whether Ben remembered the promises they had made when they got
married. Whether he remembered the plans they had discussed, the places they had wanted to
visit, the things they had thought they would do when they were older.
He wanted to ask how a person could move from loving someone to packing a bag and leaving
them behind.
But he knew the questions wouldn't change anything.
"Goodbye, Andy,
" Ben said.
Andy tried to answer.
He couldn't.
Ben walked out with his parents.
The door closed behind them.
For a long time, Andy stood in the hallway, listening to the silence.
Then he walked to the side table and turned the photograph upright.He stared at the two men in the picture.
They looked happy. They looked like people who had no idea what was waiting for them.
Andy sat on the floor and cried.