The Stuff That Never Happened by Maddie Dawson Page A

kept to our schedule.”
    “Well,” I say. “You certainly have a romantic way of putting things.”
    “That’s always been my specialty. And I gotta say, it’s worked for me so far. It won me your heart, after all.”
    “Yeah, well. Luckily you had other charms.” I pour my underwear drawer into my suitcase. “Also, you need to be careful with what you eat while I’m gone, okay? You can’t just live on grilled cheese sandwiches and potato chips, you know.”
    He rubs his eyes and says, in a weary, put-upon voice, “I can make other things besides grilled cheese. Eggs, for instance.”
    “Eggs are also filled with cholesterol. You might have to eat those frozen healthy dinners. Lean Cuisine or something like that. Or—what am I even worried about? I suppose people will invite you over to eat with them once they hear you’re all alone.”
    “Please. Would you stop this? Just stop. I’m not going to go eat at anybody else’s house,” he says. “God, what a nightmare that would be. Why would you even think I’d do that?”
    “No, I suppose you wouldn’t. You might be expected to talk, heaven forbid. But you know they’re going to invite you.”
    “I’ve got to finish my book,” he says. “I’m not likely to go looking for company when it’s been bad enough with you always needing—”
    I stop putting things in the suitcase and stare at him.
    “No, forget it. I didn’t mean that,” he says, and laughs. “Oh my God, did I say that aloud?”
    “Yes. As a matter of fact, you did. Quite aloud, as a matter of fact.”
    “Look, Annabelle.” He pretends to be beseeching me. “Honey, darling wife. I need this time. I’ll miss you, but I’m not going to lie to you and say that it’s an unmitigated disaster that you’re going. It will give me a chance to get this book done, and I won’t have to worry constantly that you’ve gotten your feelings hurt because I’m not noticing that you are the unhappiest person in the whole world or that you’re not doing the art you want to be doing, so you’re miserable.”
    “Fuck you, Grant,” I say, brushing past him into the bathroom to collect my toiletries.
    When I come out, he’s back in his office with the door closed. He does not fight. It would violate some sense of propriety that is vital to whatever the hell is at the core of that man. Long-suffering endurance, that’s his gig. Waiting things out while the crazy-ass people around him go through their little scenes and dramas.
    When I’ve packed everything I can think of, shoving things into suitcases and slamming drawers, I go to his office door and say, “I’m leaving. You might as well come out and see me off.”
    He comes out and takes my hands and looks guilty. “We shouldn’t be mad when we say good-bye,” he says.
    I just want to be out of there. I look down at my shoes.
    “Come on,” he says. “Let’s put all this aside and let our last few minutes be pleasant. Do you need me to say I’m sorry? Because I am sorry.”
    I sigh.
    “Maybe you need me to get down on my knees and beg you for forgiveness. Is that what it’s going to take?” He sees my expression and gets down on his knees on the carpet and takes my hands and closes his eyes. “Oh, please baby please, please baby please, don’t go away mad.”
    “Just get up,” I say. “You’re not taking anything seriously.”
    “I am. I swear I am. Just tell me my crimes. I’m guilty as hell. I’ll sign anything you got. It was a terrible thing to say. I don’t want you to go. I really and truly don’t.” He takes me into his arms, mashing my face against his sweater. Then he laughs and squeezes me tighter. “I just want to write my book. Oh God, I just want to write this book. So much I want to write this book.”
    “Fine,” I say. “Will you help me take my suitcases out to the car?”
    “Anything! Just stop giving me the stink eye.”
    I go upstairs and get the illustrations out of my study to take along. Then