I rub my fingers over my forehead, trying to subtly massage away the headache that’s sprung up. “I’m sorry. I can try to look for a studio space. I don’t know what’s out there that I’ll be able to afford, but I’m sure there’s something. I can get all my shit out of the kitchen, and the bathroom, and the fridge. And I’ll definitely look into hiring an actual employee to make deliveries.” A sudden spring of wetness blurs my vision. I stare down at the gray swirls on the white marble top, blinking rapidly to dry up any hint of tears before he can see. “Just please don’t ask me to move, Jack.”

One of Jack’s warm hands covers mine. “Sadie.”

Without thinking about it, I flip my palm over and our fingers automatically intertwine.

“Can you look at me, please?” His voice is soft, but even amid the din of the bar, each word hits my heart.

I take a long breath and slowly raise my head, eyes now calm and clear. “I’m fine.”

Jack gives me his softest smile, the one that crinkles the corners of his eyes. “I don’t want you to move out.”

“Oh.” The simple declaration brings me a small amount of relief. But instead of focusing on the positive, my brain immediately jumps to the costs of renting space and hiring employees.

“And you don’t need to rent a studio, or hire anyone, if you’re not ready to yet.” He squeezes my hand. “I just wanted to give you a heads-up that I won’t be around next weekend.”

“Oh.” And despite the good news, all I can focus on is Jack’s not being around next weekend. The gnawing ache in my stomach at the thought of his leaving has nothing to do with being short on delivery people either. “How long are you going to be gone?”

“I’m leaving on Thursday, but I’ll make sure I’m back in time on Sunday for dinner and Real Housewives.”

Three nights. The gnawing morphs into a chomping, devouring, eating-a-whole-slice-of-pizza-in-one-bite kind of ache.

“Where are you going?” I don’t expect him to answer, but I also can’t not ask.

“Back to Connecticut. That’s where I went last time too.” He picks up his beer with his free hand and takes a long gulp, as if he needs liquid courage. “To my parents’ house, their old house. Our old house. I still own it, and I like to go back every couple of months to check in and make sure everything’s okay.”