Chapter 43
Bea
After having the weekend to think about it, I come to the conclusion that I shouldn’t be surprised that he shielded his mom from me since I was the one who wanted to pretend our night didn’t happen.
I’m the queen of mixed signals: come closer, don’t touch me, touch me everywhere, how dare you.
It’s Olympic-level indecision. Gold medal, baby.
Since there’re too many unknown things floating in my life currently, I decide to take charge of the one thing I can control: me. Not the version trained to be agreeable, to swallow, to fit. Me. The person who can’t breathe in a relationship that starts with limits I didn’t set.
So, I do the thing my spine has been begging me to do since I learned that I have a brain.
I open a blank email and type my realest sentence to date:
I resign.
Then I do it properly, because I’m not a goblin. I write it out like an adult who values herself and, fine, loves a well-structured paragraph.
Dear Mr. King,
This is my formal resignation, effective immediately. I’m grateful for the opportunity, but I need to pursue a life that’s actually mine. I’ve documented all active projects and delegated next steps below. My laptop and badge are with HR.
–Beatrice Wrong
Then I write up a fifteen-page “How to Survive Noah King” guide that includes things like: do not book a meeting before 9:00 a.m. if you value your kneecaps; he’s allergic to cilantro (not really, but he hates the smell); board members respond to flattery and fear in equal measure—use both.
I include a note on the first page with some encouragement as a personal touch.
I forward the resignation to Esther with the guide attached.
I duplicate a similar resignation email to Julian, because I feel like I’m letting him down, and hit send before I can talk myself out of it. The second the little window leaves my screen, my lungs expand like someone cut a medieval corset off my immobile chest.
I grab the promised items to be returned and go to the office. Since it’s not even seven in the morning, the building is nearly empty.
I go to our floor, collect my belongings in a box, and head straight to HR, where I place my laptop, my badge, and the spare key to his office on Esther’s desk. I borrow a piece of paper and pen and write a short letter to her, thanking her for the opportunity and faith in me.
Then I head out.
Elevator. Street. Light. Crisp November air that gives me a much-needed boost of bravery.
On the sidewalk, I pull up my CheapFlights app and look up the cheapest tickets out of the States. I expect Europe or maybe Africa, but the universe has a joke for me. The next flight is to Bora Bora in six hours.
It will take almost all of my savings, but the universe has spoken. So I book it.
I go home and throw things into my carry-on: a passport, all the weather-appropriate clothes I can fit in, and the courage I pretend I was born with.
I text Maeve on the way out the door.
I love you. Don’t panic. I just need a minute to be a human.
Hopefully the landlord won’t vacate me while I’m gone since the lease has been paid for the rest of the month, but no one ever knows in this part of the city. Should the need arise, I’m sure Maeve would pull all my stuff from my landlord’s yellow teeth.
By the time I’m at Penn Station, ready to head to the airport, Martin has called five times. I don’t pick up because if I hear his voice, I might fold, and I am finally, gloriously unfolded.
Instead, I text him one line before I lose reception in the tunnel:
Tell Ezra I left detailed handover notes.
I get silence for exactly twelve minutes. The train lurches to a stop, and my phone explodes like a slot machine that hit a jackpot.
Ezra:
You resigned?
He just got back to the office and read it. Call me.
Martin:
He looks like he swallowed a grenade and is trying not to burp shrapnel. Where are you. The office will not survive this.
Maeve:
I support your spiral. Send me your flight info or I’ll assume you booked a cult retreat and come rescue you myself.
Noah:
Beatrice. Please answer.
I shut it all down. Airplane mode. World off. I don’t need them convincing me that I shouldn’t turn around and go back to the normal life I’ve been trying to build. Because I just stopped trying to convince myself.
When I stare out the window, the city begins looking a lot less like a trap and more like a postcard, and I feel a new, strange terror of being the only person responsible for me, mixed with excitement for the same reason.
I’m going somewhere Maeve can’t help me.
Neither can Martin. I will be on my own.
But I think I need that.
JFK is a fluorescent aquarium. Neon jellyfish people drift past me in puffer jackets.
A barista shouts names he definitely misspelled.
Someone’s suitcase commits a loud, rolling runaway.
I’m just a dot in this tide, clutching my passport and scared that someone might come and steal this freedom from me.
Funny how this is the second time I’m running away from my life, but this time it feels more liberating and a lot scarier.
I’m going to throw up. Or cry. Or both. But the weird thing is—under the nausea and the sting behind my eyes—there’s a sliver of lightness, like someone unhooked a bra strap that’s been digging into my sternum the whole day.
Security is the usual theater. I undress down to the socially acceptable socks, jeans, and T-shirt.
The TSA bin eats my shoes and a thrifted bag which is not Chanel.
The agent scans my one-way ticket and arches an eyebrow as if I’ve just announced I’m fleeing a crime scene.
Technically it’s just myself I’m running from, but sure, cuff me.
Or maybe he’s just jealous that I’ve got the balls to escape the big-city prison.
I slide my phone out to double-check my gate and make the mistake of flicking airplane mode off for a few seconds. Notifications flood like a burst pipe.
Maeve:
Send landing time. I’m not kidding.
Martin:
Where are you? I need to schedule the office panic.
Ezra:
Call me.
Noah:
Beatrice. Please—
“Mom” flashes on my screen, surprising the ever-loving fudge out of me.
The photo she insisted I use is her best profile from 1998, the exact angle she used to show photographers.
She hasn’t called to check on my well-being since I left.
I’ve received only three phone calls over the past year, which were to summon me to some gathering or another so the family would appear picture-perfect.
Letting it go straight to voicemail, I haul my bag over my shoulder, get my carry-on in tow, and head toward the gate.
Before Noah pointed out his limits, I didn’t realize I was using everyone around me as a crutch while I was trying to find myself. Maeve, Martin, my tiny apartment, even Betty.
It’s odd to say, but he showed me that people can be totally independent even if the other party doesn’t want that.
I want to be independent before I decide to build something with someone, because I want to bring my whole self to the table.
And I don’t think Noah’s ready to do the same.
There will always be limits, and I will not keep following others’ while ignoring my own.