Chapter 5
I leave you there in the crowded room. I leave Heather, too, without saying goodbye.
I text her as I stride through the too-chilly-for-October air, into the too-dark parking garage toward my car. I spilled wine down myself so I ducked out. Sorry. See you tomorrow.
She texts back as I’m sliding into the front seat of my car: No worries.
Another text follows immediately: Who was that guy??
I ignore the message and return the phone to my bag.
Who was he indeed.
Troy Weston. I remember your name with irritating ease.
I’ve never been a fool. I know you were hitting on me. You could have chosen to “network” with any other lawyer in that bustling, busy room. You chose me for a reason. You probably clocked my face, my hair, my bare left ring finger.
She’ll do, you thought.
You were self-effacing, charming—but it was a calculated sort of charming. Not natural, not flowing and silken, but forced and sharp-edged. It didn’t sit well. It rests, still, uncomfortably in my gut like a heavy meal followed by a rich dessert I should have declined.
I turn on my car and flick my headlights on, then corkscrew my way down the parking structure, toward the exit gate.
The meter devours my ticket, I charge the exorbitant parking fee to my credit card, and I race from the city as if I’m driving a getaway car, glancing in the rearview mirror like I’m afraid I’m being followed.
I park in a resident-reserved spot in the garage beneath my building, then ride the elevator up to the seventh floor.
In my kitchen, I turn the recessed lighting to glowing, white life.
Lynn, the woman who cleans for me, was here earlier in the day.
I can smell the citrus-oil soap she uses on the wood floors, and the granite counters and chrome pulls gleam.
This place has never felt less like a home.
I slide a pre-made meal out of the freezer, puncture the plastic film more aggressively than is necessary, and toss it into the microwave.
The half-drunk bottle of pinot grigio chilling in the door of my fridge is tempting, but I know a second glass of wine will only make me sleep more poorly.
Sitting on a stool at the island, my cell phone resting beside my tray of food, I eat with one hand and tap out responses to emails with the other.
Ignoring my shower, the foot scrub, and the soaker tub I’ve used only a handful of times, I wash my face and change into my silk pajamas.
Lynn always makes the bed with alarming precision, and it takes several tugs before I’m able to free the edge of the comforter and slide between the sheets.
My laptop propped on my knees, the television on the wall across from me playing last week’s episode of Real Housewives, I respond to more emails, questions from clients and opposing counsel streaming into my inbox unrelentingly, no matter the day or hour.
“Lonely,” I say into the otherwise-empty room as I snap my computer shut and place it on my nightstand. Instantly, I regret saying it aloud. Somehow that’s made it more real.
It’s real anyway. I’m lonely.
I glance at the other nightstand on the opposite side of the bed.
It was never Adam’s nightstand, nor was this his bed.
He never set foot in this condo, in fact.
I purchased it for myself after our relationship ended, and I moved in alone.
I bought all-new furniture to fill it. Nevertheless, the presence of the second nightstand, never used, makes me think of him.
My own nightstand is dotted with my things: Lavender-scented hand cream. A squat glass of aging water. A plastic container of earplugs. My black silk eye mask. My laptop. TV remote.
I grab the laptop and crawl to the other side of the bed, placing it on top of the second nightstand. There. Now it’s being used. Not superfluous.
Except, it still is, actually, and I don’t feel any better.
I’m feeling vulnerable and self-pitying, and I know that nothing good can come of that.
I slide my eye mask onto my forehead and curl onto my side, the remote control in my hand, lying in wait to turn off the screen as sleep begins to take hold. More than likely, I’ll doze off with it on. I’ll wake in the middle of the night, disoriented by the flickering light and sound.
I try to focus on the show, to block out all thoughts of loneliness and Adam.
It works. For a moment. But then it’s you who rushes into my mind. You and a feeling that something is missing. A feeling that I am missing something. Or missing out on something—something that has to do with you.
I fled that restaurant, my guard up, my hackles raised like the fur on a dog’s neck as it races through its yard, toward the scream of a fox from the woods beyond the fence. I left you behind.
I did miss out on something.
I just don’t know yet if it was something good or something bad.