I roll over, determined to get just five more minutes of sleep—it’s not like I have anywhere to be—and hear a weird crinkling noise.
Qué carajo?
I feel around on the mattress and come up with a handful of Hershey’s wrappers. Right. I went on a bender last night, and since I didn’t have wine, I polished off the chocolate bars.
The wrappers stick to my fingers, remnants of melted chocolate lining the empty packaging. Worse yet, there are dark brown smudges on the sheets.
Delightful.
I’ll have to find a laundromat in Santa Monica. No way in hell am I going to handwash a sheet.
It’s just as well.
I can wash Miles’s sheets at the same time.
My heart clenches. It’s been two days since our fight at the pier, and just as I requested, he was gone when I returned to the Airstream. By now, he’s probably back in Austin, sleeping comfortably in his own house and searching for my replacement.
In the office and in his bed.
I shove the thought aside. This isn’t the time to get up in my feelings.
Gizmo squeaks, and I reach for my phone, checking the time. It’s after noon. I should get moving.
I haven’t slept well the last two nights, but I can’t keep sleeping the day away like this. I need to pull myself together.
If not for me, then for So Savvy Traveler.
I haven’t posted in days, and if I don’t post soon, all the momentum I gained will be lost to the whims of the algorithm.
The problem is, I have no plan.
No idea where I’m going next or how I’m going to fill the void Miles left behind.
In your heart or your online content?
Both.
Like a glutton for punishment, I open Insta and scroll through my notifications.
Most are comments congratulating us on reaching Santa Monica or asking where we’re headed next and when we’ll once again let the internet decide our fate.
That would be never.
The messages are a painful reminder that Miles is gone and our relationship, however short-lived, is over.
Mierda. What am I going to do?
So Savvy Traveler is my brand, and I’m responsible for the content, but without the man candy, will anyone even care what I’m doing, or will they just stop interacting?
Anxiety creeps up my spine, whispering insidious thoughts in my ear.
They’re going to unfollow you.
Your brand will tank.
They were only ever here for Miles.
My pulse quickens, and I throw back the blanket, dragging myself to a sitting position. I can’t let those wretched thoughts take root. I’ve already wasted two days feeling sorry for myself.
