“Again, this is sweet, but insane,” Ian says as he rubs his eyes and shifts in the passenger seat. “My company pays for every cab ride I even think about taking, let alone take.”
“This is different,” I say. “Seeing you off out of New York is different.”
“You’re going to see me in eight days.”
“Please just let it be sweet, okay?”
I start thinking about what I will miss most about Connecticut, and New York, and living here, and I wonder if what Ian will miss most are the same things. I wonder, as I drive down 95, a particularly ugly stretch of 95 where everything is very gray, where the palette is unwelcoming and dark even in July and the bark on the trees is a harsh brown, what I will fall in love with in London, and if I will even fall in love. I wonder if Ian thinks about these things, and I realize I don’t know.
“What’re you going to do with the house all to yourself for a week?”
“Dance on the tabletop. Invite the high school football team to party. Masturbate.”
“That’s my girl,” he says.
We don’t talk for a long while. Finally, he reaches in to the radio dial and turns up NPR to stave off the silence.
“Shit. This skyline,” he says as soon as we hit the Triboro Bridge. I don’t say anything back. “We’re going to have a real life over there, Rachel. Everything is going to be how it’s supposed to be.”
“This wasn’t real life?” I say, keeping my hands fixed on the wheel, not looking at him. I know he’s turned towards me.
“You and I both know this was no way to live. Any of it,” he says. “Me not being the best husband. And you…”
“And me what, Ian?”
“We’ve just been happier, is all,” he says. “We’ve both been happier without external forces chipping away at us, and we need to move on with our lives. This is us moving on with our lives. We’re doing the right thing.”
I start seeing signs for JFK as we cruise along the Van Wyck, not a speck of traffic in our way today.
“Virgin Atlantic,” he says calmly, pointing towards one of the big sign boards for the terminals. “If you didn’t agree with me in some capacity, you wouldn’t be doing this. But you are.”
Ian reaches down into his lap to adjust the buckle on his belt, even though he doesn’t really do anything with it, just sort of plays with it.
“You tossed and turned a lot last night in your sleep,” I say.
“This is all a big fucking deal, Rachel.”
I stare down into my lap for a second longer than I should.