“You’re really ending it?” Seth asked, his voice barely audible over the wind in the oak trees.

“The wedding’s canceled, the accounts are separated, and your truck key is in your mailbox,” I said.

I turned around and walked back toward the park exit without stopping.

Behind me, dry leaves rustled along the stone wall.

I didn’t stop until I reached the crosswalk at the corner of Elm and High Street.

Across the lawn, Seth walked slowly through the trees toward the parking lot, his head down and his hands buried in his pockets.

By five o’clock that afternoon, Paige was standing in my Elm Street living room, taping the top of a brown moving box.