I sit in my car, parked in Alex’s driveway, my finger hovering over Cameron’s number.
It’s not the first time and it certainly won’t be the last.
I’ve wanted to call him for the last week, but I also knew I was not in the right frame of mind to deal with anyone, especially Cam.
From the moment I talked with my lawyer, it’s been one thing after the other with this divorce.
Serving Savannah the papers.
My parents reaming me for filing for divorce in the first place.
The whole towngossipingabout Savannah’s Victoria Secret Soap Opera show on our lawn in the middle of the night.
My parents giving me shit for giving Savannah the house.
Me actually finding a place in New York that is close to the businessandaffordable.
The last thing either of us needs right now is me and my mess of a life.
Which is why I can’t call him, not now. I can’t talk to him until I’m out of the fucking trenches.
I need to do this right.
I toss the phone on the passenger seat, and focus on pulling out of the driveway while messing with the radio until I find a station that’s blaring familiar lyrics I can’t ignore. My Chem’s “I’m Not Okay (I Promise)”.
God, this takes me back. Cam and I used to blast this stuff from my car on the way to school in the morning. Something about that makes me smile, so I turn it up, and pretty soon I’m shouting it from the top of my lungs, and it feels good.
For the first time in a long time, I’m not worried about how I sound or who will hear me or if someone will judge me for acting like a teenager when I’m a grown ass adult.
I scream those three words and it’s like an anthem I didn’t know was meant for me.
I’m not okay. Fuck, I am a disaster on wheels, right now.
But maybe I will be o-fucking-kay, one day. And that itself, is enough for now.
It’s nearly two a.m. when I get in. My key is left under the mat, just like Margo said it would be, stuffed in an envelope with aWelcome to New Yorkcard. I open the door, the darkness as exhilarating as it is terrifying. I roll my suitcase in and shut the door as I turn on the lights.
It’s a far cry from my four-bedroom house back home, that’s for sure.
It’s a two bedroom apartment with a kitchen the size of a postage stamp and a living room that is barely big enough for four people to rest comfortably in. But the view is nice. A big window that overlooks the city is the focal point. It reminds me of the one in Cam’s place. I stop for a moment, gazing out at the twinkling city lights, and I wonder if he’s awake.
Wonder if he’s looking at the same city view because he can’t sleep, remembering how much I loved them.
Remembering how much I love him.
I slide my phone out, bringing up his contact.
My finger hovers over the text thread that’s been empty for over two weeks now.
The thread is flooded with his apologies, the last one right before he was supposed to leave for Paris. He’s still calling every day, but the calls are becoming fewer.
Maybe he’s still overseas. Maybe it’s wishful thinking to think he’s here, up at two a.m. on a fucking Thursday.
I stare at the city lights and it’s like all the anger I’ve been carrying subsides. I want to be mad at him, for what he did—he lied to me.
But I wasn’t innocent in the matter, either. I didn’t want to acknowledge the truth anymore than he did.
I also know Cam, and I know he wouldn’t have held back such an important thing if he didn’t have a reason. And maybe that reason was because he didn’t want me to blame him for the destruction of my marriage. Because I blamed him once before.
