Chapter 5: The Quiet Farewell

The next thirty-six hours were a surreal, funeral procession. The house was a shrine to a life that had died, and Davidson was a ghost strolling its halls. Melissa spoke to him only as necessary, her voice a dry, hollow instrument that pierced more effectively than any scream. She was a fortress, and he was the conqueror she had already yielded to, awaiting now for him to formally possess the territory.

He loaded one large duffel. Work boots, jeans, a few flannel shirts—the outfit of his old life, now a costume. He stuffed in the one suit he owned, the one he wore to his wedding, and it dangled in the bag like a promise he deserted.

Sunday morning, they went to church. It was Melissa's idea, said in that same horrifyingly calm voice. "The kids expect it. We will not cause a scene.".

They took their usual pew. Davidson tried to focus on the pastor's sermon about faith and family, but every sentence felt like a personal admonishment. He could feel the curious, sympathetic glances of the congregation. Rumors moved quickly in a small town. The half-rumor rumor was that he'd gotten a big promotion that included travel. A white lie generous enough Melissa must have told to keep them safe.

He knelt, the greasy wood icy against his knees, and tried to pray. The words tasted like ashes on his tongue. He was no longer praying for guidance; he was praying for forgiveness for a sin he had yet to commit, but had already resolved upon. God felt very far away. Joe Brian's pale calculating eyes felt very much closer.

After the service, old Mr. Grady clapped him on the shoulder. “Heard you’re heading up to New York, son. Big things. Your family must be so proud.”

Davidson’s smile felt like a crack in plaster. “Thank you, sir. Just temporary.”

Melissa was already herding the children toward the car, her back a rigid line of refusal.

He read to Jake and Sarah for the last time that night. He hugged them a bit too tight, breathed in the scent of their shampoo, recalled the way they felt against his chest. They were overjoyed. Daddy was off on a big adventure. He was going to work for the man who owned the tall buildings in the movies.

"Will you call me a taxi?" Jake asked, his eyes wide with awe.

"A whole squadron of them," Davidson whispered, his throat constricted.

He tucked them in, kissing their foreheads, standing in the doorway until their breathing was even and smooth as sleep.

Downstairs, Melissa waited. The table was empty. The printed schematics were gone, tucked away in his duffel. She was by the sink, arms folded.

"The car will be here in eight hours," she said, having no regard for him.

"Melissa…" He didn't know what to say. I'm sorry it wasn't sufficient. I have to do this as a falsehood that they both knew. I love you sounded the cruelest thing that he could say.

Don't,' she broke in on him, her voice at last cracking, revealing the open pain that lay beneath. "Just don't, Davidson. You've made your choice. You look at those skyscrapers and you see a future. I look at my children and I see a father who's making a choice to leave them behind. We don't share the same world anymore."

She spun away from him and stormed off, leaving him standing alone in the kitchen.

He didn't sleep. He sat on the couch in the living room, staring at the digital clock on the microwave as it ticked its way towards his future. 4:00 AM. 5:00. The house was like a tomb. At 5:30, he grabbed his duffel and brought it downstairs, placing it beside the front door. It looked small and pathetic.

At 6:15, he heard Melissa coming down. She failed to look at him. She proceeded into the kitchen and started brewing coffee, the everyday ceremony a harsh irony to the instant.

At 6:29, a black town car, as misplaced on their dirty street as it had been on the rig, slid to a perfect halt at the curb.

Davidson's heart thrashed against the inside of his chest. This was it. There was no turning back.

The driver, a nattily dressed man in a uniform, emerged and swung open the rear passenger door. He stood there, impassive.

Davidson looked at Melissa, who remained at the kitchen window, turned away from him, shoulders set.

"Goodbye, Mel," he breathed.

She did not turn.

He shoved open the front door, the crisp morning air against his skin. He picked up his duffel bag, last, weightless anchor. He stepped one foot outside, then another, his feet going toward the car that awaited him.

He reached halfway down the walk when a small voice cried out.

"Daddy!"

He spun. Sarah had stood in the doorway, her little face pressed against the screen, crying and her cheeks streaming with tears. She held her beloved stuffed rabbit. "You forgot Mr. Hoppington! He'll keep you safe!"

The stark, piercing love in the act shattered him. He turned and went back, his vision blurring, and took the soft, worn-out rabbit from her little hands.

"Thank you, baby," he was able to say. "I'll take care of him.".

He couldn't kiss her goodbye. He couldn't look back over his shoulder at the house. He made a quick about-face and half-ran to the car, sliding onto the familiar, leather-scented interior. The driver slapped the door shut after him, a soft, final thud.

The world outside the tinted glass—his home, his weeping child in the doorway, the life he was leaving behind—expanded into a silent movie. The car glided away, smooth and unhurried.

He hugged the soft rabbit, a bitter reminder of everything he was leaving behind, and didn't allow himself time to look back.

The drive to the airport was a blur. The private terminal was a refuge of tranquility and competence. No lines, no crowds. Alan Price waited by a small, high-tech aircraft.

"Mr. Ekon. Right on time." Price's look bypassed the stuffed rabbit in Davidson's hand but did not respond. "The flight to Teterboro is a little over three hours. Mr. Brian asked you to go through the secondary market study for the Gulf project when you get here. The files are on the tablet there."

Davidson numbly nodded. He was led aboard the plane. The floor and seats were cream-colored leather, the wood burnished. He was alone on the plane.

As the plane took off, pushing him back into the seat, he looked out the window. The flat brown horizon of Texas shrank beneath him, patchwork quilt, then dwindled into memory.

He was free-floating. Cut loose.

The flight attendant had brought him coffee, orange juice, and champagne. He shook his head. He opened the tablet on the table in front of him. The screen illuminated with a complicated spreadsheet. He tried to focus on the numbers, but they swirled before him.

He recalled Joe Brian. Of the challenge. Of the power. He held on to the thrill he'd felt in the penthouse, allowing it to chase the pain from his chest.

The pilot announced that they were beginning their descent into the New York area. Davidson looked out the window again. They descended through a layer of clouds, and then it was in sight.

The skyline. A jagged, impossible forest of glass and steel that leapt up from the ground, glinting in the morning light. It was huge. It was terrible. It was all he'd ever imagined and nothing like it at all.

The jet banked, giving him a perfect, whirling view of the island. His new home.

His phone, turned to airplane mode, buzzed with a lagged message. It was Melissa, and it had been the instant he'd pulled away.

It wasn't angry. It wasn't sad. It was just three words.

Three words that landed with the force of a body blow, stripping the air from his lungs, making the stunning cityscape out the window look like a prison sentence.

The message read: "Who are you?"