Her fingers were rough and cold.

“He isn’t the man you think he is,” she said. “He never was.”

I pulled my arm away, ignoring the look of pity in her eyes.

“I have to go,” I repeated.

I threw a twenty-dollar bill onto the table, not waiting for change.

I walked out of the diner, the heavy glass door banging shut behind me.

The afternoon air was cold and damp, smelling of wet asphalt and approaching rain.

I got into my car and sat there for a long moment, my hands gripping the steering wheel.

The leather was cold under my palms.

I turned the key, and the engine coughed to life, the heater blowing a blast of cold air into my face.

I drove through the quiet streets of our town, barely seeing the neat lawns or the colorful autumn leaves.

Everything looked different now.

The suburban houses, the white picket fences, the manicured gardens—they all looked like a stage set.

A beautiful, elaborate lie.

I thought about the nursery we had painted yellow.

I thought about the five long years we had spent trying to conceive.