Harrison followed him into the office. The same office where he had been served the papers. The scene of the crime.
"Your numbers are down, Harrison," David said gently, closing the door. "Way down. The Midwest distribution route is a mess. You missed the vendor meeting yesterday. People are talking. I know you're going through a... a transition. But I need you here."
Harrison looked at David. He looked at the framed photos of David’s family on the desk. A smiling wife. Two kids in soccer uniforms.
Harrison felt a wave of nausea.
"I can't do this," Harrison said, his voice raspy.
"We can work on a plan," David offered. "Maybe some time off?"
"No," Harrison said, standing up. He felt a strange, dark liberation. "I don't want time off. I want out."
"Excuse me?"
"Fire me," Harrison said. "Just cut me loose, David. Give me a severance package if you're feeling generous, or just kick me out. I don't care. But I can't look at another spreadsheet."
David stared at him, shocked. "Harrison, you're the best PM we have. Don't throw this away."
"I already threw everything else away," Harrison laughed, a hollow, dead sound. "Why stop now?"
He walked out of the building an hour later with a box of personal items and a termination letter. He didn't feel free. He felt like he was falling faster.
Month Five: The Bottom of the Bottle
The severance money should have lasted six months. Emily made sure it lasted two.
She was "nesting." That was her word for it.
"The baby can't sleep in a used crib, Harrison," she had argued, unboxing a $800 stroller.
"We don't have income, Emily!" Harrison had shouted, throwing an empty beer can at the wall. "I am unemployed! We are living on fumes!"
"You'll find something," she dismissed him, holding up a tiny cashmere onesie. "You're smart. Stop being so dramatic."
She refused to see the cliff. She was buying a fantasy life for a baby that Harrison still couldn't think about without feeling like he was choking.
So he drank.
He switched from bourbon to cheap whiskey. He drank to tolerate the apartment. He drank to tolerate Emily’s voice. He drank to dim the memory of Sarah’s face, which haunted him every time he closed his eyes.
It was a Tuesday night. It was raining. The apartment felt damp.
Harrison was on his fourth tumbler of whiskey, sitting on the edge of the bed. The room was spinning pleasantly.
Emily came out of the bathroom. Her belly was showing now—a undeniable swell. She was wearing a lace nightgown that struggled to contain her changing shape.
She wanted him. She always wanted him when he was drunk. It made him pliable.
"Come to bed, Harry," she cooed, crawling across the mattress. "You look so tense."
She reached for his belt.
Harrison didn't stop her. He was too tired to stop her. He fell back against the pillows, the alcohol making his limbs heavy.
She climbed on top of him. She kissed his neck, her hands roaming over his chest. "I missed you today," she whispered.
Harrison closed his eyes.
