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She gives Andrew the papers in their kitchen – well, she supposes it’s his kitchen now. Everything in the house is his now. From the piano he’d bought her on their first anniversary (to go with the traditional sheet music) to the stupid bread maker that Coulson had bought them as a joke to celebrate their planning.
Her throat tightens. She has a bag full of clothes, a box full of photos, an ache in her hands and a room at the base. It’ll do, for now.
Andrew deserves so much more than she could possibly give.
He stares silently at the table, at the end of their marriage in a pile of papers a sixteenth of an inch thin, then slowly, heavily pulls his pen out of his shirt pocket. It’s the one she got him for their first anniversary: resin body, chrome nib, gold trim; A. Garner engraved on the side.
(”Property of Melinda May,” he’d laughed at her after.)
She straightens her back, loosely clasps her hands together, and waits.
He signs the papers. It takes a while. He reads each page carefully, perusing every single word, before slowly twisting his pen open and initialling at the bottom. It’s slow, almost tender and yet, at the same time, it’s torture. He plays with the pen as he reads, and each scrape of the tip across the page straightens her back further.
Finally, he finishes, turning his pen to hide the nib and returning it to his pocket. He leaves the papers on the table, and calmly stares at them, his hands resting in his lap.
She reaches for the papers, her own hand outstretched, willing her fingers not to shake. She’s just about to collect the file, when he suddenly lifts his arm and intercedes, gently grasping her hand and running his thumb over her fingers. She stiffens at the contact, her lungs forcing heavy gasps up her throat that she hurriedly tries to silence, but still she manages to not pull away. She can give him this.
He notices anyway, the way he always notices these days – but then he should have already known – and drops her hand immediately. His face crumples a little and he looks away but then back at her and she looks down at the floor.
She nods once, but can’t meet his eyes, and focuses on tucking the papers into the folder she’s holding in the crook of her elbow. Thank you, she thinks but doesn’t say the words because she knows that to utter them out loud would only hurt them both.
She spins around and picks up her bag, sliding the folder into it. She slowly treads towards the door as he stands up and follows. She stops at the entrance.
He places his hands on her shoulders, rubbing her arms as if to warm her, and she glances up for just a second, just a second to memorise those eyes; but it’s all she can take because she doesn’t want to remember them with that solid streak of pain that he’s holding.
He opens the door and she steps outside onto the porch, the light flickering at her back. She ducks her chin as she shuffles down the steps. There’s a wind howling around her, winter chill blowing with it, and she can almost pretend she doesn’t hear his “Stay safe, Melinda,” as the door slams shut behind her.
Almost.