I end the call, setting my phone back down on the ledge of the bath.
That’s a good friend, right there. She wants to smack me upside the head, tell me I’m being an idiot, and she’d be well within her rights. But she doesn’t.
Strangely, the fact that she didn’t try to save me from myself makes it more obvious that I need saving. That’s the shove I needed. Not to see this evening through, but to do what I should’ve done in the first place.
Five months ago.
I climb out of the bath, sloshing water in my abruptness, towel-drying with a vigorousness born half of purpose, half of self-loathing. Fling the towel onto the rail and don’t much care that it slips off.
Walking back into the bedroom, I ignore the lingerie I’ve laid out. It can stay there; maybe he’ll realize what he missed when he sees it. Instead, I pull on clean jeans, a strappy top, and a sweater against the cold. Hair still damp against my shoulders. Slip back into my Jimmy Choos.
Maybe I should write him a note. I take a piece of paper from the printer tray in his study, pick up a pen, and carry them both back into the bedroom. It’ssix minutes to ten, and I spend two of those staring at the blank page.
Then I tug the engagement ring from my finger, set the sheet in the center of the bed, stark white on black, and place the ring on it. As messages go, it’s concise.
And as unemotional as his proposal, seven months prior. “You’ll marry me,” he said, as he produced that ring. Not down on one knee, not phrased as a question. A statement of fact, a foregone conclusion.
Alarm bells back then? No, because I was in love with the man. I washappy.
It takes me three minutes to get my suitcases out of the hall closet, because his damn golf clubs are so heavy. His Brioni overcoat I leave on the floor, because I just don’t care anymore.
One minute.
I take a slow breath and let it out. Pick up my car keys. It’ll take me two minutes to get the cases loaded. Am I being generous, giving him every second I can, or do I secretly want him to arrive at the last moment?
His car still hasn’t pulled into the drive by five past ten, and I’m sitting behind the wheel.
I start the engine, staring at the automatic gates, willing them to open.
What will I do if he drives in now? What willhedo if he finds me sitting here, with my ring on the bed and his coat on the floor?
I realize, with a shock, that I’ve never seen him angry. Just one more emotion that he hasn’t seen fit to share with me.
No passion. That’s the problem. There used to be;where has it gone?
I shift into drive and the car edges forward. The gates open, but not because his car is coming in. Mine is going out.
And to my surprise, the tightness in my chest fades. This feels like freedom, even if it’s bittersweet.
So long, Alexander Reyes.
Two
Alex
My portfolio is open on one screen, the Summit Ridge acquisition file on the other, but I'm not looking at either of them. Instead, I'm staring out at Park Avenue forty stories below, as tiny early morning commuters thread the sidewalks and distant sirens add to the hum of the traffic.
Vicky's birthday was yesterday, and I didn't make it home.
Rita's fault.
As if my thoughts summon her, she raps twice on my door, then lets herself in.
“Good morning, Alex.”
I’m certain her pencil skirt is the shortest yet, her white silk blouse tight, not fully occluding the black bra hinted at beneath.
She smiles as she struts across my office, long legs in high heels deliberately crossing with each stride, like a runway model. She has the looks and probably the experience, even if it isn’t on her résumé. Her makeup is immaculate as always, probably hiding shadows under her eyes after our session last night. We’d been at my apartment, working into the small hours.
