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One of these days, maybe I’d learn how to sleep on the couch without fucking up my arm. Like facing the other direction or something.

Then again, it would all be a moot point if I just got up and stayed in the bedroom, but I couldn’t. Not now.

I couldn’t sleep in the bedroom because Nick was gone.

I was used to spending nights apart, but this was different. This wasn’t like when he stayed at the firehouse for his three day shifts. During his rotations, he was gone for a few nights, and when that was over, he came through the front door, sleepy-eyed and exhausted, in the morning before I went to work. Not this time. He was really gone this time. Not moved out yet, but all it would take was a borrowed pickup truck, some cardboard boxes, and a few hours to take care of that.

He hadn’t decided yet if this was permanent, but it didn’t feel temporary to me. There was too much finality in the click of the front door two nights ago. He didn’t storm out. He didn’t slam the door. He just quietly said he had to go, needed to go—Nick, please, don’t go—and slipped through my fingers.

I exhaled and rubbed my forehead, swallowing the lump that kept trying to rise in my throat. We’d had problems for a while now, but I’d been so sure we’d be all right. Even when we’d fought and couldn’t stand the sight of each other, when we went days on end without speaking, I knew we’d make it through. Somehow, we’d make it through.

I thought we would, anyway. There was never any doubt in my mind that what we had was solid enough to weather damn near anything.

Now, all I knew was that Nick’s side of the bed was empty.