She almost didn't go.
Stood in her apartment on Saturday morning with her keys in her hand and talked herself out of it twice—the first time with he needs space, the second time with you said what you said and you meant it and showing up now looks like weakness. Both arguments were reasonable. Both arguments were the kind she usually won.
She went anyway.
Because Ricky never let her sit in it. That was the thing she kept returning to as the car crossed into Brooklyn—the specific pattern of their nine years together, the way fights between them always resolved on his initiative. He came to her office. He knocked. He apologized first, or pushed until she did, or found some way to close the distance that she hadn't managed to close herself. He always came back.
He hadn't come back this time.
