They quietly finish packing that morning; well, at least he does. She'd packed days in advance but he always left things to the last possible moment. It was just another thing, another little quirk that had turned from amusing and endearing to a weapon she could fling at him in the middle of a discussion. Something that she could reprimand him about to feel she had the upper hand in this horrible game they'd taken to playing, that had no possible winner.
She doesn't say anything this morning, though, in favor of starting the pretense of civility they must keep up for the next week. And since it's far too frigid outside for her to stand next to the car until he decides to come down, she just waits at the door until she hears the bedroom door slam closed
She's jamming her suitcase into the trunk of the car when he finally exits their house, a small duffel bag in his hand. It probably only has the most basic of toiletries, a pair of jeans, and his worn shirts; which doesn't excuse the forty-five minutes he spent packing while she was stuck waiting.
He takes the bag from her and tells her to wait inside the car. A minute later he joins her, rubbing his hands together to create some heat.
It's a minute too long she's left alone to think of his gesture, mindless as breathing, and it just makes everything that much harder. The fact caring for her seems to be intrinsically tangled into everything he does. She notices those little things now more than ever, and knows that she'll probably-no, absolutely- will miss them. And damns herself for thinking about it.
She doesn't realize she's looking at his hands, her eyes lost, until he stops before reaching for the ignition. It shakes her out of it, and when she looks up his eyes pin her down in a way that makes her want to look away.
"Are you sure this is a good idea?" he asks carefully, and she's almost surprised at how his voice sounds, quiet instead of strained. She's almost forgotten it could be that way.
"Francis, we've already talked about this," she shakes her head, trying to clear the melancholy fighting to take over. "I don't know about you, but I don't feel like breaking my mom's heart for Christmas. She's already sad enough during this time of year."
Her father had died in an accident around Christmas' Eve when she was a newborn. Even though her mom was married now, there was always the lingering sadness that hung around her during the holidays, the memories unavoidably running behind her eyes.
She hopes it won't be like that with Francis in the future.
But this is different, she reminds herself, they both decided that ending their marriage was for the best; they both wanted this-her mom hadn't had a choice.
"There's your siblings too," she continues, "besides, it's not like we can back out now."
Francis nods once, starting the car and cranking up the heat.
"I know…it's just..." he shakes his head, then looks away from her as if he, too, was starting to realize that the last vestiges of them would scatter away soon. He looked away as if it hurt.
Mary starts to wonder if having a choice even matters when you love someone.
.
Mary grew restless as they drove through the heavy midday traffic, one of his hand endlessly fiddling with the radio. They had their own music, of course, but he was smart enough to leave all of it alone. Every single song had a story she could remember, a memory she could pin-point. Their wedding dance song, a stupidly upbeat song they had picked in favor of the usual slow and cheesy, was probably in every single playlist. Her indie songs and his classic rock, combined in a hectic mix they both knew by heart.
They hadn't been above having sex to a couple of them either, in the very seat he was occupying in fact, that one time.
He finally leaves the radio at some really obscure country station he knows neither of them can stand, and runs a hand through his messy hair, pulling on the curls with the tips of his fingers like he always does when he's nervous.
They hadn't spent so much time in each other's company without a fight breaking out in months, hadn't been willingly this close to each other in weeks- and she had to rip her eyes away from his profile, the familiar resentment fading away in the face of the sadness for everything they'd lost.
.
Roughly 20 minutes into their trip she starts doubting the soundness of her judgment.
Maybe this was a bad idea, but they'd promised months in advance to both of their parents to make their trip for the holidays, and when they'd called to confirm nearly two weeks ago she'd made a flash decision and told Catherine that yes, of course they would be going. She wouldn't miss seeing the kids for anything in the world. And no, she wasn't crying, she was just having allergies in the middle of fucking winter.
She told Francis later that night, fully expecting this to be another fight. Their decision to get a divorce was something they had calmly discussed a few times, and though she was numb and detached when she spoke to him, she was still coming to terms with it. It seemed he could not get out of the house fast enough, already starting to pile up his things in several boxes.
That's why she'd been wary of telling him that they had to pretend things were fine until the holidays had rolled around. She was expecting him to chastise her or tell her she was insane. What she didn't expect was for him to agree as calmly as he did, or to tell her that she was right.
But of course he would, she should have guessed it. He had more than just his parents to worry about.
His siblings, the whole lot of them; Elizabeth and Claude, Charles and little Henry Jr. They all adored Francis, and even when they had disagreed on everything else, not wanting to hurt his brothers and sisters had always been a priority for them. They were enough hurt already by the sort of marriage their parents had.
The children were pretty attached to Mary, and while Elizabeth and Claude were good friends to her, Francis and she had played surrogate parents to the littlest ones more than once.
Telling them they would be getting a divorce and she would not be around as much only days before Christmas had been unthinkable, and while she had viciously wanted to hurt Francis back then-she could never do anything to his family. She loved them. She'd get to spend one last happy holiday with all of them before everything changed.
She'd gone on with this façade to keep their families from paying for her and Francis' mistakes, to keep from hurting them. Until now, she hadn't realized how badly she would be hurting herself.
It feels like a very long time has passed when he speaks again, though it's closer to half an hour.
"Mary…when we get to my parent's house… Bash, he knows," he says, looking at her from the corner of his eye to gauge her reaction, and she bites her tongue before telling him to keep his eyes on the road and this modicum of decency is broken. They had an agreement to keep their divorce between them, and now neither of them has kept that promise, like so many others they made.
"I know we agreed to keep it in but-"
"Its fine," she interrupts him, feeling just slightly guilty, "besides…Kenna knows too." And Greer, but she wasn't about to tell him that. He breathes a little more fully than, she thinks, or perhaps she's just imagining things.
"They would've told each other anyway, I suppose," he jokes. "Those two can't keep their mouths shut around each other." The small smile on the corner of his lips fades as soon as he looks over at her.
It's there, right under the surface, how we used to tell each other everything. And then it's gone.
"Yeah," she agrees half-heartedly, and goes back to looking out the window.
.
Francis parks their car in his parent's driveway, the large house covered in a thin layer of snow that had been steadily falling since they'd left the highway. She has a lot of memories from this house, and something choked in her throat as she realized that. She definitely had not thought this through.
"If this is going to work…we need to talk." She looks over at Francis, who was staring up at the third floor of the house, where his old room was.
"This is like the plot of a romantic comedy," he points out, still not looking at her.
"That would be a terrible movie," she tells him, a sad attempt at a joke. She feels oddly hopeless now it was all done, anger not clawing at her insides anymore.
"I know," he says, finally meeting her eyes. "The leads hate each other and it ends in divorce."
She almost tells him, I don't hate you. Sees it as a question in his eyes, behind the deadpan attitude with which he says the words. She almost tells him, but then remembers his hand running down Olivia's back, their mouths fused together, and she swallows the words. She isn't sure if they would be true.
"It's just a few days," she tells him instead, reigning them back to the task at hand. "Just pretend-"
"Pretend nothing's wrong." He nods, retrieving the flowers they bought for his mother from the back. "Have everyone spend a nice holiday with us, then go our separate ways. Did I miss something?"
She shakes her head and steps out of the car, bracing herself against the cold. He doesn't sound angry, there's just the usual resentment that hovered over them now, and it is more than what she expected. She just hopes it will be enough.
"This will be over soon and we'll be able to move on," she tells him, when they're finally on the doorstep.
"It'll be over soon," he agrees, and then knocks on the door.