This story first appeared in Volume 16, Issue 4 of The First Line.

We went as far as the car would take us. Somewhere on the shoulder of a dark highway, I had to pull over as the last drops of gasoline were used up. My fingers were still locked around the wheel, my head slightly bowed, my heart a slimy mass crawling into my throat. I was afraid to look at her, but I could feel her fidgeting in the dark beside me. I could smell her perfume, mixed with her own anxious sweat.

I’d been dating Diane for just over three years. We’d started the way you’re supposed to. Mutual friends introduced us. We went on an awkward dinner date at a restaurant that was inappropriately fancy, but still kissed at the end of the night. On our fourth date, we had bad sex on an old couch in her apartment. After seeing each other for eight months, I moved in. We had better sex on the same couch.

Then the relationship settled. That’s not to say we got bored. Neither of us strayed. But time passed, and nothing changed. We realized that we were becoming stagnant. There was only one step left to take, and when I didn’t seem to have any intention of taking it, Diane got restless.

She didn’t say anything to me. She’s not that type. And if I would’ve brought it up, she’d’ve said she was perfectly happy with what we had. But she wasn’t. I could tell by the way she lingered on a wedding show for just a second longer than any other while flipping channels. I could tell by the way she lied awake some nights, thinking I was asleep. She used to snore contentedly on her stomach. But the nights she lay awake on her back, with her knees up, were becoming more frequent. Maybe I should’ve sat up those nights, kissed her on the forehead and told her to go back to sleep. But I didn’t. I kept my eyes closed and tried to do my best imitation of peaceful. There are a lot of things I should’ve done differently.

I’ve loved Diane since our fifth month of dating. I remember the day I fell in love with her. It was a Saturday. The day was overcast, so few people had gone to the park. She thought it’d be funny to squeeze herself into a child’s swing. I nearly wet myself laughing when she couldn’t get out of it. She tried to haul herself up by holding the chains, but she was good and stuck, and swearing at me. When I got a hold of myself, I got closer. She threatened to kill me if I didn’t help her out. Her eyes were fierce, her lips pouting, and a strand of straw-colored hair was across her face. I reached forward and tucked it behind her ear.

I’m not sure when exactly I knew it was over. There wasn’t a fight, or anything like that. There was just a change in the air. One morning, I watched her carefully spooning cereal into her mouth and licking cinnamon dust from her lips and I knew that she’d decided. I knew that if I didn’t do something soon, she was going to give up on me.

Both of our parents are divorced. Hers divorced when she was two. In her earliest memories, her parents were already starting to build new lives, with something like hopefulness. My parents divorced when I was eleven. I remember watching hopefulness wither, until their marriage crumbled like a dried plant in an indelicate hand. Diane always believed. I didn’t.

I thought for our third anniversary, I’d take her out somewhere nice. I had my best suit dry cleaned, she put on more makeup than usual. I had the duck. She had a twenty-four-dollar salad. We had too much of the house wine and laughed too loud for the people at the table next to us. We were ourselves. When we left the restaurant, I let go of her hand to bend down and tie my shoe. I heard her breath catch with surprised delight as I dropped, then release in a mostly concealed sigh as I stood back up, and she realized her mistake. Neither one of us said anything, but my face turned red. I was too embarrassed to take her hand again, and she was too disappointed to reach for mine. She lay on her back that night, knees up.

I began to do a lot of thinking. Two weeks ago, I transferred money from my savings to my checking, and went to a jewelry store. I sat in my car for forty-five minutes in front of the store. Then, I spent another hour and a half standing in front of the display cases, not really looking at anything, trying not to vomit, and shaking my head no whenever I was asked if I needed help. I got back into my car and cried hot, frustrated tears with my head against the wheel because I knew I was losing her. I was angry at her, I was angry at my parents, and I was angry at myself.

She had stopped thinking. She had decided. And it was going to hurt.

The night was clear and the stars were out, but we chose to spend it in a movie theatre, watching a comedy and not laughing, with the armrest between us down. I glanced at her a few times during the movie. I know she saw me, but she didn’t look back. I drove us home, and as I pulled into the driveway and moved to turn off the engine, she said, “Patrick. I’m not ready to go inside.” I put the car in reverse. “How about we drive some more?” She nodded. We both knew what would happen inside.

So I drove. I wanted to speed, but I didn’t let myself. I forced myself to keep steady and clenched the wheel a bit too tightly. We didn’t talk. She didn’t ask me where I was driving us, and I was glad of that, because I had no answer. I just drove on down the highway, letting street lamps flash past us, evenly spaced. But we didn’t get too far, because I’d been meaning to gas the car up since the day before last and hadn’t. Eventually, I had to pull over to the shoulder, my hazards on.

This was my opportunity, the last one I would get. I could tell she was waiting for me. She’d been waiting for me for a long time. I had to say something right then. I didn’t.