But tonight, it seems like they keep putting off the warning, and I think it might not actually happen. I mean, when is the weather actually accurate?
I toss my sketchpad on my desk, which knocks over my notepad onto the floor. I bend down to grab it, realizing it’s my unfinished list.
Shit. I look at all the unchecked boxes, realizing I haven’t packed a thing like I’d meant to do earlier this week.
I leave in two days for New York, and I haven’t done a thing.
Usually, I have my bags ready to go at least a week ahead of time.
But I guess I’ve been distracted lately, ever since Savannah got home.
She’s been… more distant than usual. Every time I ask her if she’s okay, she just glares at me.
I’m pretty sure she’s gone through her weekly supply of cheese already, and I just stocked the fridge yesterday.
I know her job is stressful, even if she doesn’t say it. I’ve watched her go from cashier atSechea’sboutique in the city to manager to regional manager, all the way up to junior production assistant over the course of seven years.
She worked her ass off to get to where she is, and the rise up theSechealadder hasn’t been an easy transition for her. But ever since she came home from her shoot in California, she’s been extra bitchy.
I sigh as the wind knocks the branches against my window, figuring now is as good a time as ever to start packing. I grab mysketchpad and some pencils, thinking it might not be a bad idea to bring them along in case I get inspired.
Last time, when I visited the Met, IwishedI had remembered to bring my sketchpad. I could’ve done a study of theStudy of a Nude Man.
I smirk at my own joke.Call it Nude-Ception.
Just as I turn the corner and enter the kitchen, I see Savannah, hunched over the island. Her shoulders are tense and she’s staring at her phone.
I don’t stop, since she never really notices my presence half the time, and I’m more than used to my wife ignoring me.
But tonight, she looks up from her phone, as I head to my room.
She follows me, and I’m acutely aware of her gaze on me, but it doesn’t feel warm or friendly. I open the door to my room, figuring this is where she’ll leave me and head for hers, but she doesn’t.
She leans in the doorway instead, keeping her distance as I toss my sketchpad and pencils on my bed. I reach in my closet, pull down my suitcase and say, “Is there something you need?”
I toss the suitcase on my bed, unzip it, and flash my attention to her. She stands there, dressed in a form-fitting blue dress that makes her breasts look bigger than they actually are. Once upon a time, I might have looked, might have even thought it was sexy, but Savannah is nothing but an illusion. Even now, standing in my doorway, she looks impeccable. Long, bouncy golden curls and expertly cut bangs, lip liner the perfect shade of nude, lashes that are thick and full and stand out against her pale skin.
But none of it is real, and she doesn’t look right. In my room. She barely sets a foot in here, like the floor is made of lava.
“You’re not seriously going on this trip still, are you?” she asks, her voice flat.
I gesture to my suitcase. “I wouldn’t be packing if I wasn’t,” I say bitterly as I head to my dresser. I open my underwear drawer, pulling out at least twelve pairs even though I’m only going to be gone for five days. That’s two pairs a day, plus extra in case I get the shits. It hasn’t happened yet, but I’m not taking any chances. I’d rather have extra packed and not use them, than to not pack enough and be screwed.
“When are you going to give this up?” she asks, twisting her lips. I raise a brow at her as I refold my underwear, rolling them so they fit better in the suitcase.
“Give what up?” I ask, rolling another pair and placing them inside.
“This stupid video game thing,” she says with a huff. “It’s never going to happen, Austen. You have to know that.”
Anger flares within me at her words, because they aren’t the first time I’ve heard them.
“Yes, it is,” I bite back. I head back to the dresser, pulling out some button downs, spreading them out on the bed so I can fold them to fit in my suitcase.
I’ve got a system, and it works pretty well, though my brother calls it Suitcase Tetris, like basic organization is some form of OCD.
I’m pretty sure it’s common knowledge to fold your clothes this way, though. At least if you do a lot of traveling. Which I don’t, but…
She scoffs. “No, it’s not. Seriously. How many places have you looked at? You’ve been doing this bullshit for years, squirreling away in your fucking office with your little sketches and fantasizing. But we both know you’re never going to actually buy a place.”
