It's a little after four in the morning and Toby's eyes look red. He rubs at his forehead, glaring at his reflection in the mirror and wondering if he should call a cab or try and hail one on the street.

She wants him to stay.

He knows this because she's lying out there in her bed, facing away from him, pretending to sleep. When he slips out, forgetting to take his tie from the back of the kitchen chair, she won't move a muscle. But he'll pull the front door closed softly anyway, as if he's trying not to wake her.

It's the small deceptions.

So he's delaying, standing here in her bathroom - pristine, white - and all he can think of is how much he misses the clutter of CJ's vanity, all tall, slender bottles containing beauty and mystery. And he doesn't owe CJ anything, least of all fidelity, but he wishes it were her perfume he could smell on the towels.

And he's twenty years too old for this, and it's five years too late, and he wants to be able to explain it to Andi, why it can't go on. But he's so tired, and he wasn't the one who showed up at her apartment six months ago, with whiskey in one hand and Chinese food in the other.

So he's thinking of ways to call it off. To say, we're better than settling for the familiar. Or rather, I'm tired of sneaking around with someone who didn't want to stay married to me. Or maybe, there's someone else.

He imagines the look CJ would give him if she ever found out.

He splashes water on his face, crumples a Kleenex and aims at the silver trashcan on the other side of the room. It misses.

Figures.

As he bends down to scoop it up, he notices the packaging at the bottom of the can. The box is an optimistic purple. The plastic is cream and the edges are smooth and cool under his fingers. Medical.

Authoritative.

There's a pale blue plus sign in the window.

His heart is racing, and maybe there's another explanation. There must be another explanation. They tried for too long, tried everything. This has to belong to someone else.

The irony would be overwhelming. His hands are shaking, and he can picture vividly the tears that slid down CJ's face as she clutched just this kind of plastic, sitting on her bathroom floor, knees drawn up to her chest. Was it two months ago? Three? Her knuckles were white, he remembers. Strands of her hair were plastered to her cheeks.

He should confront Andi. He should do it now. There are so many things he needs to say. But he lets the plastic fall back into the trash.

He goes back to bed. Andi rolls toward him.

He rolls away.