Toiletries: Alphabetized Books: Stacked by priority reading order
Alcohol: All of it
I was folding my fourth sweater when my phone rang again. Unknown number.
"Hello?"
"Farley? It's Savannah. I'm using my publicist's phone because I figured you'd ignore mine."
"I'm not ignoring you. I'm just—"
"Having the worst night of your life?" Her voice was gentle, concerned. "I'm so sorry. I had no idea about Ollie and Roger. If I'd known—"
"It's not your fault." I sat down on my bed, suddenly exhausted. "Your party was perfect. I'm sorry I ruined it."
"You didn't ruin anything. But honey, are you going to be okay?"
I looked around my apartment—at the packing list, the half-empty bourbon bottle, the engagement ring somewhere under my couch—and wondered what "okay" even meant anymore.
"I'm going to Virginia tomorrow. Taking some time off."
"Good. That's good." She paused. "For what it's worth, Ollie's an idiot. And Roger's been blacklisted by every editor in that room. Nobody's going to hire him after this."
The vindictive part of me felt a small spark of satisfaction. "Really?"
"Really. Publishing might be messy, but we take care of our own. You're well-loved, Farley. Don't forget that."
My throat tightened. "Thanks, Savannah."
"Go to Virginia. Drink too much. Cry. Scream at mountains. Whatever you need. We'll handle New York."
After she hung up, I poured one more drink—a small one, because I needed to be functional enough to get to the airport tomorrow—and pulled up the cabin photos on my laptop.
The pictures still looked like paradise: rustic elegance, mountain views, the promise of peace. But now they felt like a reminder of everything I'd lost. The romantic getaway had become an exile. The carefully planned surprise had become an escape from humiliation.
I clicked through the photos, landing on one of the deck overlooking misty peaks. I'd imagined standing there with Ollie, watching the sunrise, planning our future.
Now I'd be standing there alone.
A tear rolled down my cheek, hot and unwelcome. Then another. Then I was crying in earnest, shoulders shaking, the bourbon glass forgotten on my nightstand.
Three years. Three years of loving someone who'd been fucking my assistant in coat closets while I planned romantic getaways.
I grabbed my phone and opened my notes app, creating one final list through blurry vision:
Things I'm Never Doing Again: 1. Trusting anyone in publishing 2. Dating colleagues 3. Hiring attractive assistants 4. Falling in love 5. Planning romantic surprises 6. Believing in happy endings 7. Giving people the benefit of the doubt 8. Being this fucking stupid
I closed the laptop, finished packing, and set my alarm for 5 AM. The flight to Charlottesville left at noon, and I needed to be on it before I did something stupid like respond to Ollie's texts or throw myself off my balcony.
As I finally collapsed into bed, drunk and exhausted and heartbroken, I pulled up the cabin reservation one last time.
Ashford Gap, Virginia. One month. Complete privacy.
I stared at the ceiling, at the shadows cast by streetlights through my window, and felt the full weight of my isolation pressing down on me.
Tomorrow, I'd get on that plane and I'd start over.
But tonight, I let myself break.
