I pull out of the driveway, holding my breath. I watch as Savannah stands there in the brightly lit doorway, never moving. She just watches me.
God forbid she get wet and make a scene and draw our neighbor’s attention. God forbid anyone know how broken we fucking are.
The tears come easily, as the light and Savannah get smaller.
I don’t know where I’m going, all I know is I need to go.
So that’s what I focus on. The lights, the soft strings of this terrible weepy radio station that I can’t seem to change because the sappy, depressing songs make me feel less alone.
I follow the signs out of town until I’m on the highway, heading north, and I just drive. The windshield wipers wash away the onslaught of rain, but it keeps coming. I stay my course.
It's near two in the morning when I arrive in New York, outside Cam’s building. I hadn’t meant to come here, I tell myself. But it’s a lie because my breaking heart knew the moment I threw my suitcase in the car where I was going.
Home.
I sit in my car, parked on the side of the street for what feels like an eternity before I get out. The rain is steady, and I’m still damp from the downpour at home. But I don’t care right now. It could be a monsoon, and I wouldn’t care. It’s fitting for how I feel. Like I’m drowning in my failures, like I’ve fucked up again because I can’t be the person Savannah wants me to be.
Some ATM machine without feelings or dreams.
Someone she can control. Funny, because she always called me the controlling one.
My fingers hover over my unsent text message.
It’s just three letters, but somehow it feels like so much more. It feels like a lifeline.
I don’t know if he’s awake, and even if he is…
I’m sure the last thing he needs right now is a messed up Austen who doesn’t have his shit together. Pretty sure no one needs that.
I stare up at the top floor window. It’s dark.
My heart aches as I think about leaving. About finding some mediocre bar to drink away my pain or some freshly made king-sized bed that will only illuminate how alone I am.
That’s what I should do. It’s what most heartbroken men would do after a fight with their wife.
But it’s not what I want, and it’s certainly not what I need.
So I hit the send button.
Hey
The rain drenches me, raindrops clinging to my lashes and making my vision blurry, my clothes clinging to me like a second skin.
I turn around, figuring he’s probably asleep since there’s no response and the light’s still out.
But as I turn around, my phone vibrates.
I glance at it, three little letters bringing me more relief than they should.
Hey.
He texts me immediately after.
You ok?
My tears mix with the rain as I tap out my response.
No. Can I come up?
