Savannah: I'm so sorry, whatever it is, I'm so sorry
I scrolled past hers and found the ones I was dreading.
Ollie: We need to talk.
Ollie: It's not what you think.
Ollie: Farley, please.
And then, most recently:
Ollie: I'm coming over.
"Fuck that," I said to my empty apartment, and poured another drink.
I opened my laptop and pulled up my packing list for the mountain cabin.Things to Pack for Romantic Mountain Getawaystared back at me, mocking in its optimism.
I deleted "Romantic" from the title.
Then I deleted "Getaway" because it sounded too cheerful.
Things to Pack for Mountain Exilefelt more accurate.
I opened a new document and started a different list:
Things I Ignored Because I'm an Idiot:
1. The way Roger always found excuses to stay late when Ollie visited my office
2. Ollie's sudden interest in "helping" me with editorial letters (he was stealing my notes)
3. That time I caught them having coffee and they both looked guilty
4. The fact that Ollie's been distant for months
5. My own fucking intuition
My phone rang. Ollie.
I declined the call and added another item to the list:
6. Red flags are apparently my favorite color
I was three drinks in and creating a subcategory titled"Signs Your Boyfriend is a Lying Sack of Shit"when my phone rang again. Not Ollie this time—my boss, Margaret, the Editorial Director who'd hired me eight years ago and scared me into competence.
I considered not answering. But Margaret didn't call unless it was important, and the last thing I needed was to be fired on top of everything else.
"Hello?"
"Farley." Her voice was sharp, efficient, laced with something that might have been concern if Margaret did concern. "What the hell happened tonight?"
"I'd rather not—"
"I don't care what you'd rather. Half of publishing is texting me about you having a breakdown at Savannah's party. Are you okay?"
The genuine worry in her voice made something crack in my chest. "I'm fine."
"You're a terrible liar. Are you drinking?"
