One Last Night

"If you want me to sign, Audrey, put the papers down and look at me."

She looked at his hand instead.

Julian Mercer's wedding ring caught the bedroom light as he loosened his tie. His jacket was already on the chair. Beneath the open collar of his white shirt, she could see the faint mark she had left there two nights ago.

By morning, he had covered it with another immaculate shirt and asked whether she needed the driver.

Tonight, she needed a divorce.

"I've looked at you for three years," she said. "You still haven't signed."

He stopped pulling at the knot.

Audrey stood beside the bed they had shared since their wedding, holding the document that would make her a stranger to him again. Her suitcase waited by the door. Poppy's rabbit backpack leaned against it.

Julian's eyes moved to the bags, then back to her.

"You've packed."

"Our agreement ends tomorrow."

"At midnight."

"Does the hour matter?"

"It seems to matter to you."

She put the papers on his nightstand. Her signature looked small beneath the neat paragraphs. She had practiced saying goodbye in the car, in the shower, while folding Poppy's pajamas.

None of those rehearsals had included him standing this close.

He came around the bed, unhurried. She knew that particular stillness. In boardrooms, men mistook it for patience. At home, she had learned it usually meant he was angry.

"Is this because Ryan is back?"

Her breath caught.

"Ryan's back?"

His jaw tightened at the surprise in her voice.

"You didn't know?"

"Why would I know?"

"You're asking me."

"Because you just mentioned him."

Julian stopped an arm's length away. Whiskey lingered faintly on his breath, but his eyes were clear, his attention intolerably precise.

"You remembered the exact day you could leave," he said. "I wondered what made you so eager."

"You gave me the date."

"I gave you a home."

The answer hurt because it was true, and because he knew she could never quite stop owing him for it.

"And I've been grateful," she said. "But gratitude isn't a reason to stay married."

Something shifted in his face. It was gone before she could name it.

"Is that all you've felt?"

She looked away.

His fingers touched her chin, light enough that she could move. She hated that she wanted to lean into his hand.

"Audrey."

"Don't ask questions you don't want answered."

"Try me."

She met his eyes.

"What am I to you?"

The rain against the windows seemed suddenly louder.

He brushed his thumb along her cheek. His gaze dropped to her mouth, then returned to her eyes.

"My wife."

"Until tomorrow."

"You're determined to keep saying that."

"Because you keep pretending you haven't heard it."

She meant to step around him. Instead, she caught the loose end of his tie as it brushed her hand.

An absurd little contact. Familiar silk between her fingers. Three years of helping him straighten it before receptions, of watching him remove it at night.

Julian looked down at her hand.

"Are you going to let go?"

She did. Immediately.

His mouth curved without amusement.

"That's what I thought."

"You don't get to use that against me."

"Use what?"

"The fact that this is difficult."

The curve disappeared.

He raised his hand slowly and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. She could have stopped him. She didn't.

"Difficult," he repeated.

"I live here. My daughter lives here. Of course it's difficult."

"And sharing my bed?"

Her cheeks warmed.

"That wasn't in the agreement."

"No. It wasn't."

There it was: the part neither of them had ever explained properly. They could discuss schedules and appearances, but never why the distance vanished whenever the bedroom door closed.

She had told herself his desire was simple. Convenient. A body he liked in a house he owned.

Her own desire was harder to excuse.

"One last kiss," she said before courage failed her. "Then we talk."

Julian went utterly still.

"Don't call it last."

"Then don't kiss me."

For a second, she thought he would refuse.

He took her face between his hands and kissed her with the restraint of a man holding something too tightly already. Audrey's fingers closed over his shirt. She had intended something brief, dignified, a farewell she could survive.

Instead, he paused against her mouth, and she followed him.

That small betrayal of her own resolution made her furious.

She pulled back, but not far enough. His forehead rested against hers.

"You make this easy in the daytime," she whispered.

"What?"

"Leaving you."

His hand settled at her waist.

"And at night?"

She should have lied.

"At night, I forget what we're supposed to be."

His eyes closed for a moment.

When he looked at her again, something fierce had come through the polished surface.

"Stay tonight."

"I'm already here."

"That's not what I mean."

She understood. It was the first time he had asked instead of assuming, and somehow that made refusing him harder.

"It won't change tomorrow," she said.

"I know what you said."

Audrey kissed him again. This time, she knew what she was choosing, even if she didn't know how she'd live with the morning.

Julian drew her close, and the papers slid from the nightstand when her elbow struck them.

Neither reached to catch them.

Much later, Audrey lay awake beside him while rain blurred the garden lights. The room was dark. He always preferred it that way, and she had spent too many nights wondering whose face he didn't want to see.

She turned toward the lamp.

Julian caught her hand before she reached it.

"Where are you going?"

"Nowhere. I want the light on."

He released her.

The warm light showed a tenderness in his face she wasn't prepared for. Then he looked at the papers on the floor, and it vanished.

"So you're still leaving."

"You knew I was."

He sat up and dragged a hand through his hair.

She wrapped the sheet around herself, suddenly exposed in a way that had nothing to do with her clothes.

"I don't want your money," she said. "The studio loan is repaid. I won't make accusations to the press. We'll say the marriage ended privately."

"You've prepared everything."

"Someone had to."

He looked at her for a long time.

"I would give you whatever you needed."

"Then give me a clean ending."

"There's a condition."

She felt the room grow colder.

"What condition?"

Julian looked toward the door, beyond which their daughter slept upstairs.

"You can take the money, Audrey. You can take the house if you want it."

He turned back to her.

"But Poppy stays with me."