Chapter Three—Lorna #4
I set down my fork. “Voicemail doesn’t decide whether I’m important enough to interrupt you.”
He had almost rolled his eyes. “He doesn’t decide that.”
“He does every time he takes a message.”
“He follows instructions.”
I had stared at him across the table. “Your instructions.” I hadn’t understood then, and don’t until tonight, that I was on Fenton’s list of things to manage to make Chris’s life easier.
That stopped him for a few seconds. His face changed, and I thought he’d finally understood what I was trying to tell him.
Then he nodded. “I’ll change the routing.”
He did for about a week. Chris answered twice himself, and Fenton forwarded another call immediately. Then Chris flew to New York, and the old system returned.
The first time I mentioned it, Chris said he’d check the settings. The second time, he was rushing into a meeting and kissed me absently before leaving. “I’ll deal with it.”
I never knew whether he did. Eventually, I stopped asking because there are only so many times you can make the same request before the answer becomes obvious even when nobody says no.
My phone vibrates against the desk.
Chris: Please answer me. I didn’t say what I meant correctly.
I read it twice.
Maybe he didn’t. Chris has always been better at handling facts than feelings, and there was a time when I’d have called him back immediately so we could untangle whatever he’d meant before either of us slept.
Tonight, I don’t have enough left to help him explain why his words shouldn’t hurt me.
I stand and walk to the dresser, then slide off my wedding band. My engagement ring catches near the swollen joint of my finger, and I work it carefully until it comes free.
The emerald-cut diamond catches the lamp beside the bed.
Chris chose it without help. He’d noticed that every piece of jewelry I bought for myself had clean lines. Rectangles. Squares. Nothing ornate.
When he proposed, he’d looked almost nervous as he opened the box. “I know everyone does round.”
I’d laughed through my shock. “Everyone?”
“The internet has strong viewpoints.”
“You researched engagement rings on the internet?”
“I research everything.”
I had smiled. “That’s my line.”
His slow smile had appeared then, the private one I rarely saw him give anyone else. “You infected me.” Then he’d held out the ring. “I thought you’d like this better.”
He was right.
I turn it between my fingers now, remembering how much it meant that he knew me well enough to choose it without asking anyone else what his future wife would want. Tonight, he listened to me describe being attacked and still trusted somebody else’s explanation of my life more than mine.
I place both rings on the hotel key card near the door.
My phone buzzes again, but I don’t look at it. Instead, I text Willa.
Thank you for believing me. I need to be somewhere that’s mine. I’ll be in touch.
Her reply arrives almost immediately.
Do you need me to drive you?
I wipe at my wet cheeks before answering.
I can drive.
Three dots appear, then her next message fills the screen.
Rental car is still downstairs. Keys are in the console. Send me a message when you’re somewhere safe. You don’t have to tell me where.
I stare at the last sentence until my vision blurs again. Willa doesn’t demand an address, ask whether I’m thinking clearly, or tell me what decision I should make next. She gives me a car and trusts me to choose.
I pack my laptop, check the bathroom for my toiletries, and zip the bag. Chris calls again while I’m doing it, but I let the phone ring as I shove the damp washcloth into the bathroom sink and throw away the plastic bag that held the melting ice.
Before leaving, I stop near the desk and look at the rings on the key card. For a moment, I consider putting them in my purse and making the decision later, when I’m not frightened, concussed, furious, and exhausted.
My hand reaches halfway toward them.
Then I remember him saying I need help.
I leave them where they are.
The elevator carries me to the parking garage. Willa’s rental is in space fourteen, with the driver’s seat pushed too far back for me. I adjust it, put my bag on the passenger floor, and buckle the seat belt carefully around my sore shoulder.
Chris calls once more while I wait for the garage gate to rise. I watch his name disappear from the dashboard screen after I reject the call, then turn off Bluetooth so the next one can’t startle me while I’m driving.
The lodge is a little over five hours away, near Grandfather Mountain.
I bought it at twenty-four with money I’d saved from modeling campaigns instead of buying the Manhattan apartment everyone insisted would be a smart investment.
It sits on four acres with hardwood trees, a long gravel drive, and a porch that sagged on one corner until I had it rebuilt.
Chris has been there once.
We spent a long weekend there after our first anniversary. He complained about the mattress, made pancakes badly enough that I had to scrape one from the pan, then spent two hours helping me choose paint samples for the upstairs guest room even though I eventually picked the color he liked least.
The memory brings a brief smile that disappears almost as quickly. We’d been happy there.
The deed is in my maiden name. The utilities are mine. The contractors are people I hired before I married Chris, and no one else manages the property for me.
I merge onto the interstate and head north through the dark. My phone remains face-down on the passenger seat, and I don’t turn on the radio.
For the first few miles, tears keep slipping down my face. I wipe them away whenever they blur the road, then make myself concentrate on the taillights ahead of me, the exit signs, and keeping the car centered between the lines.
Chris believes I’m afraid. He just doesn’t believe the thing I’m afraid of exists. I don’t think I can forgive him for that.
I keep driving toward the one place that’s entirely mine. It’s clear I’m better off alone.