I want to leave. He wants to stay. I search online for hotels, for places to get away. He prepares our house for the storm—fills bathtubs with water, cupboards with food, drawers with batteries. He’s determined to ride it out at home, no matter how bad it gets. Says he wants to protect the life we built together. A life I no longer want, but haven’t told him yet. Outside, the silent palm trees and cloudless sky give no hint to what’s churning off the coast, what’s got the weather forecasters talking, what’s headed our way. I help him hammer nails into plywood to cover up our fragile windows. We bring a bunch of empty flowerpots into the garage. There’s barely any room for them, so much junk accumulated over the years—old golf clubs, frayed beach chairs, rusted bicycles. Stuff we don’t use anymore. It’s a kingdom of cobwebs and lizards in here, but better than standing outside in the merciless sun. I check my phone’s weather app. There’s still time for us to pack up and go. Or maybe just me? He comes around the side of the house, inspecting the eaves and roof tiles one last time, mumbling about things that could wreck our home—flood water, fallen trees, power lines down. Funny how he doesn’t mention Her, the other woman. Slim. Blonde. A younger version of me. He’s apologized, expressed remorse, wants us to move forward, get past his mistake. Forgive and forget, I suppose. I tried doing that. But I still rage and remember. The summer heat makes my body feel feverish, laden, sick with something. I’m tired of storm preparations. Tired of him. I give an exasperated sigh, pick up a flowerpot, smash it on the garage floor. He gives me a dumbfounded, what-the-fuck kind of look. Doesn’t know what to say. I do. A tiny green lizard hurries down a wall into hiding. I hear palm branches stirring in the front yard. The weather is about to turn. I can feel it.