12. Daniel
DANIEL
Igo back into the conference room.
Everyone looks up. Marcus studies my face and then, because he's not stupid, closes the Meridian packet in front of him.
"Decision?" he asks.
"I'm not taking Meridian."
Ellis starts to speak, but I keep going.
"Not after two weeks. Not after a reception. Not with me in Jakarta and Singapore for the next two years. If Welling wants the package, assign another lead."
"There's no other lead," Ellis says.
"Then don't take the package."
The room changes again, and this one costs. I feel it in the silence.
Good. Let it cost. The problem with my life lately is that everything has cost Nora, and everyone has called it my success.
Marcus leans back. "You're serious."
"Yes."
"Your father will have views."
"My father collects views like other men collect watches."
Davis coughs again. Definitely not a cough this time.
Marcus almost smiles. Almost.
"And the return reception?"
"Cancel it."
Charlotte's head turns. "Daniel."
"Cancel it."
The Welling Events inquiry flashes through my mind. Honey & Rye. I saw the name on the catering options that morning and went still in the project suite while Charlotte talked about press flow and board arrivals. Honey & Rye. Nora's work. Alive again.
My chest hurt so badly I had to sit down. I hadn't known. Of course I hadn't known. My wife rebuilt her dream, and I found out from an events inquiry.
That's the kind of sentence that should make a man shut up for a while. I didn't shut up.
I said, "Use them."
Like an idiot. Like a man who thought dragging her bakery into a Welling room would mean something good to her instead of to me.
"Actually," I say, "don't cancel it yet."
Marcus's eyebrows lift.
"No reception," I say. "But pay the vendor. Full contract, rush fee, whatever the highest cancellation fee is, double it."
Charlotte's eyes narrow very slightly. "That will look odd."
"I'm done caring how my marriage looks to Welling Events."
Another silence.
This time, I like it.
"Book my flight," Marcus says to Charlotte.
She looks at him, then at me.
Marcus shrugs. "You've got his phone."
I hold out my hand.
Charlotte hesitates.
Half a second, maybe less. But I see it.
She gives me the phone, and I take it. The screen lights up under my thumb, and Nora's name is still in my favorites. That feels both pathetic and not nearly enough.
I open the airline app myself. The first flight to New York leaves in five hours.
First class is full. Business has one seat, middle row, and I book it with my own hands, which shouldn't feel dramatic but does, because apparently I've been outsourcing even the parts of my life that point toward home.
The confirmation appears. Singapore to New York. Departing tonight. Arriving two days before the return reception.
I read the confirmation twice, like it might change.
For the first time in months, I know exactly where I'm going. Not the next site, not the next boardroom, not the next hotel.
Home. Maybe. If I still have one.
The flight is nineteen hours and forty minutes, which is a cruel amount of time to sit with yourself. I don't recommend it.
The plane smells like leather, coffee, and people pretending not to be trapped in a tube over the Pacific. I sit in a business-class seat that turns into a bed and don't sleep for more than twenty minutes at a time.
Every time I close my eyes, Nora is there. Not fantasy Nora. Not the blonde girl in Central Park, laughing at me like I could do no wrong. The real one.
Nora at the gala, standing alone in the right dress.
Nora in the kitchen, asking me not to go without using the words.
Nora's voice on the call when she said everything was fine and sounded like someone had taken the floor out from under her.
Nora not answering my calls.
Nora rebuilding Honey & Rye in Jersey City while I sent roses from Singapore and called it effort.
I scroll through our messages until the flight attendant asks if I want dinner. I say no, then yes, then eat three bites and give up.
Somewhere over Alaska, I open the photo she never answered. Central Park, Nora laughing. I look at it and feel nothing like desire. Not because she isn't beautiful, but because the man who sent that text was a fool.
Send me a picture.
Jesus.
What did I think she owed me? What did I think I had been giving her?
I turn the phone facedown, then turn it back over.
I type:
Me: I'm coming home.
I read it back.
Too late. Too small. Too much like every other almost.
I delete it.
I type:
Me: I landed a flight. I'll be in New York tomorrow.
Delete.
I type:
Me: Nora, I know I've been gone too long.
Delete.
There's no sentence that can do the work of showing up, so I stop trying to send one.
The plane lands at JFK in gray morning light. My body thinks it's night, my phone thinks it's morning, my marriage probably thinks I'm a joke.
I stand at baggage claim with no checked bags because I left most of my life in Singapore and only brought a carry-on, a laptop bag, and a suit I no longer want to wear.
New York smells like rain, coffee, exhaust, and old impatience.
I've missed it.
I hate that too.
Outside, a driver holds a sign with my name. Welling sent him, obviously. There's always a car, always a sign, always someone smoothing the path.
"Mr. Welling," he says. "Welcome back."
I almost laugh. Back. As if arrival is the same as return.
"Where to?"
I should go to the penthouse first. Shower, change, call, plan, do it properly. That's what I've been telling myself for almost two years.
Properly later.
Another notification.
Welling Events has forwarded the cancellation invoice for Honey & Rye. Vendor address: Newark Avenue, Jersey City. Nora's world.
Not the penthouse. Not Welling. Not the return reception. Hers.
The driver waits.
"Mr. Welling?"
I close my hand around the phone. My heart is beating too fast.
Good. About time something in me moved.
"Jersey City," I say.
He blinks in the mirror. "Sir?"
I give him the address.
He types it in, and the route appears. Forty-two minutes. I've crossed oceans for less terrifying distances.
The car pulls away from the curb. New York slides past the window while I lean back against the seat, eyes open, suit wrinkled, body wrecked, phone in my hand.
For once, I don't call first.
For once, I don't ask a calendar where I'm supposed to be.
For once, I go straight to my wife.