By the Time He Made Room for Me, I Was Gone

Six months into our marriage, my husband, Adrian, still refused to put a desk in the living room for me. He said there wasn’t enough space. Yet the piano his ex-girlfriend Vanessa had left behind stood in the best spot by the window. I measured the space three times. “Move the piano over a little. A desk would fit right here.” Adrian frowned. “Moving a piano back and forth could damage it. You only need your laptop for work. Use the dining table.” No one had played that piano in years. I had to make room for someone else every day. When I was halfway through writing an article and Adrian’s mother, Diane, let herself in with her spare key to drop off dinner, I closed my laptop. When his friends came over to watch a game, I carried my notes into the bedroom. Adrian called it compromise. That weekend, Vanessa came back for her piano. I was about to ask what time the movers would arrive when Adrian cleared everything off the plant stand beside the balcony. “Her new apartment isn’t ready yet, and she has an important recital next month. She wants to practice here for a while. I’m giving her a spot with good light.” I stood beside him. “What about my desk?” He sounded impatient. “Are you still hung up on one desk?” I put away my measuring tape. That afternoon, I rented a studio apartment near the magazine office. Adrian finally looked up when I carried out my computer. “Did you really need to rent an entire workspace?” I picked up my pillow and put it in my suitcase. “It isn’t a workspace. It’s my new home.” I zipped the suitcase and slung my laptop bag over my shoulder. Adrian grabbed the suitcase handle, his brows drawn together. “What is this now? You’re moving out?” “Yes.” “Over a desk?” I pried his fingers off the handle. He caught my wrist and pulled me back into the entryway. “Nora, we’ve only been married six months. Who are you putting on this separation show for?” His grip hurt. I shoved him away. “Let go!” The doorbell rang. The movers stood outside, pointing to the boxes in the hall. “Ms. Bennett, which ones go first?” “All of them.” Adrian immediately stepped in front of the piano. “Don’t touch the piano. Just take her things.” The largest box was wedged beside the piano bench. As soon as a mover bent down, Adrian put a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t move the bench.” “The box won’t fit through otherwise.” “Then unpack it and carry everything out separately.” I gripped the sides of the bench. “Move. I’ll do it.” Adrian snatched it from me. “Who said you could touch Vanessa’s piano?” The bench struck my knee. My leg buckled, and the suitcase behind me rolled down the step at the door. Its clasp sprang open, spilling my clothes and notes into the hallway. Still holding the bench, Adrian looked down to inspect its legs first. “Could you stop making things worse?” I crouched to gather my belongings, fighting the pain. The elevator doors opened. Diane stepped out carrying grocery bags. Her face darkened when she saw the mess. “You’re really leaving?” She set the bags on the entryway cabinet, grabbed a box of my books, and shoved it outside. “Then take everything. Vanessa’s coming to practice this afternoon. Don’t leave your stuff in her way.” The bottom of the box tore against the threshold. Several books fell out. “Diane!” I lunged to steady it. She knocked me aside with her shoulder and kicked another book into the hall. “Adrian bought this condo before you married him. Did you really think every inch of it was yours?” I looked at Adrian. He returned the piano bench to its place and rubbed his forehead. “My mom’s upset. Stop talking back to her.” “She’s throwing my things out.” “You’re the one who decided to move.” Diane went into the second bedroom, opened the closet, and yanked my clothes down with the hangers still attached. “Take these too. Then Vanessa can rest in here when she’s tired of practicing.” I rushed in and grabbed the clothes. “This is Adrian’s home and mine!” Diane pulled hard. The collar ripped. Adrian strode over, took hold of my shoulders, and dragged me aside. “Enough.” I hit the doorframe. A tingling pain spread across my shoulder blade. “She tore my clothes.” “They’re just clothes. I’ll replace them.” He stood in front of Diane. “Vanessa’s trying out the piano today. Don’t turn the place into a disaster.” A mover carried the last box past the piano. Adrian suddenly shoved him. “Stay away from it!” The man stumbled into the wall. The box hit the floor, books scattered, and a framed photograph struck the corner with a crack of breaking glass. In the picture, Mom sat beside my old desk holding my first published long-form article. I hurried to pick it up. A shard pierced my fingertip. Blood fell onto her face in the photograph. “This is the only picture I have of my mom—” Adrian was still guarding the piano and yelling at the mover. “How many times did I tell you not to touch it?” I pulled the glass from my finger, wiped the blood off the photograph with the hem of my shirt, and carried the box into the elevator. Adrian followed me and seized my suitcase again. “Send me the address. I’ll pick you up tonight.” “When is the piano leaving?” His fingers tightened. “After Vanessa’s recital.” “What day, exactly?” His hesitation turned to anger. “She has one important performance. Do you have to pressure her right now?” I pulled the suitcase handle free. Just before the elevator doors closed, he slapped one of them. “Nora, don’t come crying to me after you leave!” There was no desk in my new apartment. I set my laptop on a cardboard box. Its battery was at twelve percent. My charger wasn’t in my bag. I had also left the external drive containing all my interview recordings at the condo. The deadline to submit my long-form feature for the promotion review was five tomorrow afternoon. I called Adrian. He answered quickly. Piano music was already coming through the phone. “My charger and hard drive are still there. I’ll pick them up tomorrow morning.” “You can come back,” he said. “After you apologize to my mom and Vanessa.” “That article determines whether I make Senior Features Writer this year.” He gave a cold laugh. “When have you ever had a deadline that you didn’t treat like the end of the world?” “What if I don’t apologize?” “Then you don’t get a single thing back.”