A week later, I went by the club to pick up my final paycheck. The owner was sitting at the bar with a notebook and calculator, drinking coffee and filling out the ledger with numbers from the night before. “So you’re on to better things,” he said. “Probably for the best. Stay in this job too long and it’ll kill you.”

“It already has,” I called out as the door swung shut behind me, the check clenched between my fingers.

The next morning, a day after her med school graduation, Renata and I flew to California for our Joshua Tree trip. We would stay with her parents for a night in Santa Monica before trekking into the desert. The timing of the trip couldn’t have been worse; the tension with Anna had felt like clouds waiting to burst open. On the few evenings when we were both at home we barely spoke. Instead we watched television or read in separate rooms. When I’d ask what she felt like having for dinner she’d tell me she’d already ordered takeout for herself. “Did it occur to you that I might want something, too?” I once asked.

“Not really.” She shrugged. “You rarely seem to want what I want.”

Leaving when things were that bad felt irresponsible and unsettling. But at the same time, I was happy to escape, if only for a week. Anna was still asleep when I left for the airport, and I decided not to wake her. I wanted to avoid any guilting remarks about me flitting off for a week when I was moving away for good in just a few months, and why did it always seem like I was pushing her away?

I felt increasingly uncomfortable as the plane hurtled down the runway, the unresolved tension coating my stomach. The moment we landed at LAX, I switched my phone back on and called her. She didn’t answer, so I left a voice mail, then hung up and sent her a text: You okay? An hour went by and still no response. Later that evening, I realized that I still hadn’t heard from her. I texted again. I called a second time. I kept calling, again and again. Nothing.

“Weird,” I said to Renata. “Anna’s not answering.”

“Maybe she’s busy,” Renata responded. “She does exist outside of your relationship, you know.”

I forgave Renata her misplaced annoyance. She had put up with me panicking about nearly everything for years. “Your worries are like water,” she often said. “The moment one flows out, another floods in to fill the space.”