And the night before Garrett crept out of our bedroom with a dr*gged cup of tea and a suitcase full of our life, I did.
By 10 p.m., it was all in federal hands. The complaint. The accountant’s report. The preservation request to freeze the accounts. Everything.
Garrett spent that whole last evening at home believing he was about to make the great escape of his life.
He had no way of knowing the escape door had already been welded shut, from the outside, by the wife he’d spent eleven years teaching himself not to see.
PART 3
I pieced together Garrett’s night at the airport later — from his frantic calls, from Bianca’s, from Laura, and from the simple, satisfying logic of how these things come apart.
He’d arrived at Logan triumphant. Sent me the photo. Bought a four-dollar coffee for the fresh start and a nine-dollar one for himself, I imagine, feeling expansive.
