Masquerade

1

I've worn my prettiest dress tonight in hopes that Spencer will notice, and maybe smile at me for a change. It's been a long time since he did that. I take a deep breath and try to think of something more positive. It's his birthday--I'll focus on that, and the surprise I have waiting for him in the kitchen.

I pause on my way to the front door to glance in the gilded mirror hanging there. I swipe back a wisp of dark hair, smoothing it back into place. His key rattling in the door draws my attention away from my own dark gaze. I turn away, then rush through the living room to greet him, my heels clicking across the hardwood, the sound bouncing off the walls and ceiling as if I were instead inside a museum. And in a way, I guess maybe I am. The artwork watches me from the walls as I reach the door and wait for it to open.

It swings open slowly, as if signalling  his reluctance to enter. He's tired, I tell myself, just tired. I don my brightest smile as he looks up at me, his bright blue eyes meeting mine. He runs a hand through his short hair, parting the golden perfection with his fingers, just as I'd once parted it with mine. He drops his hand back to his side as I push that errant thought from my mind; he looks away from me to close the door.

"Hi," I say as cheerfully as I can. He doesn't greet me back, just nods his head, then tosses his keys on the table by the door. "You're late. Is everything all right?"

He shakes his head and lets out a harsh breath before turning an aggravated glare on me. "Don't start, Willow. I'm not in the mood tonight."

"I-I wasn't," I stammer, surprised by his response. "I was just worried, Spencer. I thought you'd be home--"

"We need to talk," he interrupts, turning his gaze away.

They are only four words but they feel like so much more, like a noose around my heart, squeezing it until it hurts. Not now. Please God, not tonight. My eyes begin to burn but I won't cry. This can still work. 

I reach out to take my husband's hand, ignoring his words and the dark meaning I fear is behind them. I tug him gently toward the archway of our darkened kitchen and for a moment I think things will still be okay. He stops my progress abruptly, pulling his hand from mine. He shoves them both in his pockets, then looks away from me before he speaks.

"Look, Willow, I want to be gentle about this, but maybe quick and to the point would be better. This isn't going to work. We tried, but trying isn't enough for me anymore."

"Spencer, please," I plead softly. He looks back at me and shakes his head. There is no sadness in his eyes, only steely resolve. He's made up his mind. 

"I want a divorce." And there it is, the elephant in the room who'd had no name until now. My throat tightens against any response I might have given, had I been able to find the right words to say. But there are no right words, not for this. "You're not the same person you were six years ago--"

"That's not my fault," I say softly, then bite my lip against the growing sting in my eyes.

"I didn't say it was." He shakes his head, lets his gaze fall on mine for a second, then looks away again. "It's no one's fault."

"Then why are you punishing me?"

He lets out a frustrated breath. "I'm not punishing you, Willow. I just think we'll both be better off this way."

You'll be better off this way, I think but don't say. The sting in my eyes has doubled, and now the man I've loved for eight years wavers before me as a result. A tear spills down my cheek and I brush it away quickly with a trembling hand. His gaze darts to me and then away--there was no remorse in his eyes.