Chapter 2 #2
Jessica perked up immediately. “Well, Oliver is convinced he’s going to be a professional athlete despite overwhelming evidence to the contrary.”
I laughed. “He’s seven. Let him dream. The Olympics are a long way off for him either way.”
She launched into stories about them, telling me all about how her saint of a husband had stepped in at a recent football match for her younger son before effortlessly pivoting to a ballet recital for their daughter.
“You’ll see them this week,” she said once she’d finished singing his praises. “If you survive your outing with Mom.”
I groaned softly, tipping my head back against the seat. “The garden exhibition. I forgot.”
“Well, now you remember.”
I dragged a hand over my face. “I’ll never understand why she collects tea towels.”
“It’s a perfectly harmless hobby.”
“Collecting tea towels from large estates like they’re historical artifacts?”
“They are historical artifacts,” Jessica argued. “Just practical ones.”
“Don’t you think it’s gone far enough? She must have several drawers filled with them by now, and how many tea towels could one person reasonably need?”
She laughed. “We support her interests. That’s what daughters do.”
“At least we can support her together.”
Jessica winced slightly. “About that.”
My eyes widened. “No. You cannot leave me alone with her.”
“I can’t go. Oliver’s been invited to a birthday party and I have to take him.”
I wanted to argue, but logically, I knew I didn’t have a leg to stand on. Her children were her first priority and rightfully so. “Fine. I’ll go alone.”
“Mom will love that.”
“No, she’s going to love interrogating me to death about why, exactly, there hasn’t been a whisper of a wedding date, to quote you.”
“That’s also true, but hey, at least you’ve had some practice for that interrogation now.”
I sighed, leaning my head back again as the train carried us steadily closer to London, and mentally went through the drawers in my kitchen, knowing full well I would have to find room for at least a dozen more tea towels by Christmas.
By the time I made it back to my flat that night, it was late. It had been a full day of travel and I was exhausted, fumbling with my keys for a second before pushing the door open, stepping inside, and kicking it shut behind me with a soft exhale.
“I’m home,” I called out, already slipping off my boots. “Tom, did you hear me? I’m home.”
I frowned as I strode into the empty living area, expecting to find him on the couch in front of the telly. It was odd that he wasn’t here. He was supposed to be home, finally coming off a long stint in the Middle East.
For once, he was meant to be in London for more than a handful of days at a time. I moved further into the flat, shrugging out of my coat as I went.
“You will not believe this weekend,” I said, assuming he was probably in the bedroom. “The wedding was beautiful, but my snobby family—”
I stopped talking suddenly when I realized the flat was much too quiet. Even Hubert, our four-year-old, brown American Labrador hadn’t come to say hi.
“Hubert?” I called then. “Are you here, baby?”
For a long moment, I paused, listening for the sound of his nails clicking against the floors, but there was nothing. My chest tightened as I checked the bedroom, but they weren’t there either.
“They’re probably on a walk,” I muttered to myself, coming to the logical conclusion. It was late, sure, but…
No. Something feels off.
I couldn’t place it at first. It felt like a subtle shift in the space, like something had been disturbed. Flipping on lights, I headed to the kitchen. My gaze swept over the counters until I finally put my finger on it.
The apartment wasn’t just quiet. It was empty. Not completely but enough that with all the lights now blazing, I could see the spots where certain things had been. Spots that were now vacant.
Thomas’s grandmother’s vase was no longer on the mantel. None of his coats hung on the rack behind the door. The tea kettle he’d bought in Istanbul and had treasured for years wasn’t on the stove.
Cold, sharp awareness slid down my spine. My eyes landed on a single piece of paper resting on the kitchen counter, a set of keys beside it. Thomas’s keys.
I stepped closer slowly, each movement deliberate. I reached for the note and picked it up, quickly scanning the few words he’d left behind.
J—
I think we both know it’s been over for a while.
Best,
T.
I read it once, then turned over the paper, searching for more because surely there had to be more.
After eight years, he couldn’t have left me with only one sentence, and yet, it seemed he had.
My gaze dropped back to the keys, then shot to the space where Hubert’s bed should’ve been, but it was gone.
He’d taken the dog—my dog—to France. I let out a soft, disbelieving scoff. Of course. Of fucking course, this would be how it ends.
Not with a conversation, a fight, or even with the decency of a proper goodbye. Just a note.
A note and the sudden, unmistakable realization that I’d put my entire life on hold for a man who’d vanished from my life with a single sentence, but not before stealing my beloved dog.