One breath.
"Okay, Emma. Let's go."
Outside, I hail a cab. The driver asks where to, and my voicecatches on the wordhome, but I tell him the address anyway and the rest of the ride is silent.
Ben texted me a kissing emoji this morning and asked what I wanted to do today. I sent no emoji back. Just:Meet me in our apartment, 8 p.m.
When I get in front of my old building, I glance up at the concrete giant before entering the lobby.
Inside, the white marble walls smell of pine cleaner and too much nostalgia.
"Hello, Mrs. Lawson." André greets me before I even notice him, his smile as kind as ever.
"Hello, André." I wave at him. "Actually, it's Emma. Emma Foster."
He blinks, caught off guard. "I'm sorry."
"It's alright," I say, smiling warmly. "Merry Christmas to you and your family."
"Merry Christmas." He nods. "And Happy New Year—just in case I don't see you again."
The words land heavier than they should.
"Happy New Year," I echo.Because you won't.
André calls the elevator for me. I press the top floor, the door closing in front of me, and I go up, watching the numbers flick upward like seconds, thinking about everything that unraveled within these forty floors in such a short time.
I managed to lie, cheat, kick my mother out of my life for good, then stopped pretending to love my husband, and fell in love with Ben who cracked me open just by being who he is.
And this damn elevator was at the heart of it all.
When I make it upstairs, first I open the door to the pool.
The water is gone, and so are the colors. Now it's painfully hollow and the only thing that remembers us is the red bed that had me splayed on it far too many times.
The key in my hand is cold when I reach our door. I fix my collar, swallow hard, and turn it.
When I open the door, the lights are already on.
Ben is sitting at the counter, elbows on his knees, head bowed like he's been there long enough to decide a hundred different ways to start this conversation.
Seeing him like this hits me right in the lungs—I thought I'd get a moment, just a few seconds alone to prepare myself, but here he is.
He looks up as soon as I step in, his eyes catching mine, and something in his face drops.
"Holy shit," he breathes out. "You're breaking up with me."
It stops me in my tracks.
I break eye contact first, my chest a riot of emotions, and take off my shoes like following our little rituals matters now.
I have a weird urge to smile, though I won't. The air smells like us—every silly argument, every steamy kiss. I even wrote half my book here.
Ben's sitting with his knees apart, like he's saving the space between them for me, but I don't go.
I sit across from him instead—far enough to breathe, close enough to feel it all anyway.
"Don't do it, Emma." His voice cracks. "We can make it work."
