I flinch. She’s not wrong.
“I’ll be late,” I say. “I’ll mess up. I’ll probably leave the mugs on the windowsill until next Tuesday. But I’ll mean it. I swear to God, Tabitha. I’ll mean it until I get it right.”
This time, she does.
She closes her eyes. A single raindrop falls from her lashes.
“I’m scared,” she whispers. It’s the first honest thing she’s said all night. tabitha stay with me
“Tabitha, stay with me.”
She looks at the car. Then back at me. Then at the house—our house—with the light still on in the kitchen, the two dinner plates still on the table, the food gone cold an hour ago. I flinch
The screen door claps shut behind us. The rain keeps falling. But inside, the kitchen light is still on. The two plates are still on the table. And for the first time in a long time, no one is standing in the doorway, saying goodbye to someone who is already gone.