I closed Twitter before I could see more, then another text popped up on my phone.
Ollie: Can we please talk like adults?
I started typing a response, deleted it, started again, deleted it again. What was there to say? Hey, thanks for cheating onme with my assistant and also stealing my editorial strategies to boost your own career, really appreciate the three years of lies.
Instead, I opened a new note and started yet another list:
Reasons This is Actually Fine: 1.
I stared at the blank space for a long moment, then added:
1. It's not fine.
2. Nothing is fine.
3. Everything is terrible.
4. But at least I have bourbon.
My phone buzzed again. This time it was a group text from three other editors I occasionally got drinks with:
Laura: Oh honey. I just heard. Are you okay? David: Who do I need to kill?
Rachel: We're coming over with ice cream and wine.
Me: Please don't. I'm fine. Going out of town.
Laura: LIAR
David: We're coming anyway
Me: I'm already drunk and packing. Save the ice cream for when I'm back.
Rachel: We love you. Ollie's an asshole.
David: A HUGE asshole
Laura: The biggest asshole in publishing and that's really saying something
I smiled despite myself, feeling tears prick at my eyes again.
Me: Love you guys. Talk in January.
I set my phone face-down and opened my suitcase, the expensive leather one I'd bought specifically for this trip. The trip that was supposed to be romantic, and where I was going to propose.
I laughed—a sharp, bitter sound that echoed in my apartment.
The ring box was in my bedside drawer. I'd bought it two months ago, a simple platinum band that cost three months' salary. I'd been planning to propose on Christmas Eve, in front of the fireplace, with snow falling outside and every cliché romantic detail perfectly arranged.
I pulled out the box, opened it, stared at the ring that represented a future that no longer existed.
Then I threw it across the room.
It bounced off the wall and rolled under the couch, and I felt absolutely nothing.
I returned to packing with methodical precision, because if I couldn't control my relationship or my career or my personal assistant's wandering tongue, I could at least control my luggage organization.
Clothing: Sorted by type and temperature appropriateness
