Indie
AUGUST
Isigh as I sink into the hot tub, feeling bubbly—from the actual bubbles in the water and the bubbles in the champagne in my hand.
It feels like heaven on aching muscles, and the champagne on my near-empty stomach—the food on the plane wasn’t great, thank God for airport snacks—has me feeling nice and loose. I turned off the bathroom light, so the only glow comes from the lamp next to the bed, shining through the cracked door.
After leaving Teddy, going back to the condo, getting rid of every trace of me from it, leaving behind the drawings and pictures—and shedding some traitorous tears over them because it felt like my heart was tearing in two—I arranged for my car to be shipped to New Jersey in a few weeks, and hopped on a plane to Cape May.
Then I broke my own heart all over again when I met with my realtor, Gina, to back out of the house.
I agonized over it the entire flight. When I got to her office, she had assumed I was flying out to finalize the paperwork, but when I explained that I wanted to withdraw, her face shifted immediately into sympathy.
It hurt so bad to give up the house, but I’ve always been pragmatic. Especially with money. I can put the down payment toward rent on a soulless apartment that I don’t need to work on, have more money for Europe, and chip away at my student loan debt. It’s all a net positive.
Then, in a couple of years, I can reevaluate.
Thankfully, Gina understood when I told her I just wouldn’t have the time to give the house the care it deserved, especially since I broke up with the man who was going to do most of the flipping.
Teddy had spoken so much about fixing up the house for me while I was at work that I forgot he wouldn’t actually be there to do it.
Because we’re done.
“Just promise me you’ll reach out when you are ready,” Gina said, stressing each word. “And just promise me you won’t rent at Carson Estates. Goddamn slumlords own that building. Let me give you some recommendations…”
I gave her my word, happily accepted her list of trusted apartments, and found one easily the next day. Pulling out the line, Hi, I’m Dr. Miller, I’m here to see the two-bedroom, really gets people moving. Everyone always wants a doctor around.
The apartment I’m renting in Cape May is nice, right near the hospital, where I’ve also visited and met my new coworkers.
I’m used to the Midwest attitude, so the East Coast—kind but not nice—attitude will be an adjustment, but nothing I can’t handle. I’ve been dealing with Satan for the last two years. I can handle anything.
I’m just glad I never told Teddy about the house.
I was going to surprise him—let him think we were moving into an apartment, then pull up to the house when we got back from Europe. I kind of liked that Teddy let me lead with those types of things. My control-freak tendencies like keeping an eye on everything.
Or maybe it’s just the fear of having the rug pulled out from underneath me.
Either way, I like planning, which is why I’ve had most of the vacation mapped out since I was seventeen, adding little things here and there over the years. I did get Teddy’s input on certain stops, but he never wanted to change much because he knew how important it was to me.
Every time I opened my mouth to tell him about the house, though, the words got stuck in my throat.
Because it was just more ammunition. One more good thing that Dawn could ruin. She was already ruining Europe, my relationship, and the excitement over the move. The house would just be another thing tainted.
It just wasn’t meant to be.
Teddy and the house.
But I’ll be fucking damned if they take this vacation too—the trip I’ve been dreaming about for years, sometimes the only thing that got me through labs, boards, impossible professors, and patients’ families telling me it should be me and not their loved one getting the diagnosis, like I personally put the cancer in their bodies.
This vacation is mine.
Not Teddy’s. Not his family’s.
Mine.
And I’m done with him. His family. All the bullshit I let myself tolerate for far too long.
Distance gives you perspective, and my perspective is ugly. Not just of Teddy, but of myself for the past seven months. I stayed too long. I can see now I should have left after Easter, but Teddy was…
God, he was everything to me.
My heart told me to hold on, even while my brain was calling time of death on the relationship. Funny how it was around the same time Ellie passed away.
I’ve flown before, by myself and with Teddy, but that was always economy—our shoulders smashed together, packed in like sardines. Now, I’m going to fucking treat myself.
I flew first class and had champagne with strawberries on the flight. Upgraded suite at the hotel. King-sized bed. Beautiful view of the London skyline.
And a chilled bottle of champagne was waiting for me when I walked in, while my bags were carried up for me by helpful hotel staff.
Luxurious and ridiculous and, honestly, necessary.
So is prime Bruce Springsteen crooning from my phone on the counter as I relax in this tub.
The ache in my chest is still there.
For the last two weeks, I woke up in that hotel in New Jersey, and for a moment, completely forgot. Forgot why there was an exhaustion behind my eyes that I couldn’t shake. Forgot the reason for the hole in my chest. Forgot that I put my trust, my love, my safety in the wrong person’s hands.
Then I would realize where I was, and that I broke up with Teddy. And that I missed him so much it hurt.
And then I think of everything he let slide, and I got angry.
Then I put on some comfortable clothes and walked on the boardwalk, listened to the waves, felt the sun on my face, stepped on the beach and felt the sand under my feet, watching the tide come in and out.
Now, I breathe a little easier every day.
Originally, the plan was that I would fly out of Chicago to London. I begged and pleaded on the phone, using any excuse I could, to get a refund on mine and Teddy’s plane tickets.
Eventually, I had to surrender and take the loss, but I took it as a lesson too.
Don’t fucking spend any money on a partner who’s only half-in and listen to the brain that made you a fucking MD.
So, I flew out of Atlantic City and landed this morning, with my two suitcases, carry-on, and my purse.
Now I’m here—London.
It’s happening.
Today, though, is for rest and relaxation.
Tomorrow, London awaits.
The National Gallery is just as wonderful as I imagined. The absence of the man I wanted to bring to this place full of art feels like an aching echo dulled by the sheer beauty around me.
I’ve been here for about an hour, taking my time to really look at each piece of artwork, letting the feelings they invoke wash over me, when I hear an accented voice next to me.
“American?”
It’s not entirely British; it has a sharper, more precise inflection. Turkish, or maybe Greek.
Turning, my eyes widen a little when I see a gorgeous—very tiny—woman standing there. She’s petite, maybe a little older than me, with dark eyes, matching thick curls, and stunning deep tan skin.
A professional camera hangs from a strap around her neck, and she’s smiling at me with a teasing little smirk that matches her playful energy.
“I’m sorry?” I ask, glancing around to make sure she’s speaking to me.
She smiles, bounces on her toes. “Oh, I asked if you were American.”
My cheeks heat, and I glance around the gallery, suddenly wondering if everyone is looking at the big dumb tourist who committed some unknown cultural faux pas.
“Is it that obvious?” I whisper, conspiratorially.
“No, I’m just good at sniffing you lot out,” she laughs. “I’m Petra Katsaros.”
“Indie Miller,” I say, shaking her hand. “Nice to meet you.”
“I’ve never heard that before. That’s a beautiful name,” she gasps. “Is it short for anything?”
“Indiana,” I admit, a little sheepishly. “Like the state. Home of the Hoosiers. Though I haven’t been back there since I was born, and that’s a whole story I don’t want to bore you with. Family drama and all that…”
I trail off, half expecting Petra to nod awkwardly and back away. But she doesn’t, she just stands there smiling at me, waiting.
“What brings you to London?” she asks. “Business?”
“No, actually. Vacation. What about you?”
“Business, I’m afraid. My mother was born here, but I live in Greece.”
“Oh, what do you do?”
“Photographer,” she says proudly, lifting her camera. “I’m shooting a wedding here for a friend in a few days.”
“They have weddings here?” I ask, startled, glancing around the beautiful gallery again. “Wow.”
“I’m so excited,” Petra bounces on her toes, a ball of energy. “It’s for an old friend from University. What about you? What are you vacationing from?”
“Oh, I’m a doctor. An oncologist,” she looks impressed by my job, but then frowns at the specialty. “A cancer doctor.”
Her big brown eyes bug out of her head.
“Oυ?ου,” she breathes, putting a hand over her chest. “My Mama would love you. My γιαγι? had breast cancer ten years ago. Her doctors were incredible.”
My heart warms at that, another reminder of why this specialty is the one for me.
“I feel silly about my own job now—”
“No, photography is so special,” I rush to tell her. “I always admire artists. I feel like I can’t create anything beautiful like that.”
My throat tightens a little at the thought of my own artist—the idiot mama’s boy who broke my heart. Petra giggles like I’ve said something actually funny, and the sound eases the sting in my eyes.
“That’s so sweet, but I shoot bratty bridezillas and their bridesmaidzillas for a living. Not exactly fine art.”
“You capture people’s joyful moments on the best day of their lives,” I shrug. “That sounds like art to me.”
She stares at me for a long moment before she grins.
“Objectively, I understand that, but you saying it—it’s nice to hear.”
“Glad to be of use,” I laugh, a little surprised at the ease I feel around this almost-stranger. Petra is like some long-lost friend I’ve reconnected with, or maybe she just really reminds me of Ellie and her free spirit.
It’s funny, I almost feel her presence still, like her hand is on my shoulder, guiding me, pushing me to experience new things.
When I feel the social anxiety or panic creeping up my back, when I debated even stepping out of my hotel room today, nervous to explore a new city, a new country, her voice was in my ear telling me to live.
So I am.
Petra and I wander the gallery together for the next two hours, getting to know each other. I learn she’s married to the man of her dreams, her childhood sweetheart, Demetri. The story makes me swoon: she saved him from drowning when they were kids, and he vowed to marry her then and there.
“I shoved wet sand in his face for not being more careful around the water and stormed off,” she says smugly. “Then he came to ask me for swimming lessons.”
“You sure the drowning wasn’t just an elaborate scheme to get you together?”
“I ask him that almost every day,” Petra says, rolling her eyes. “He says he’ll never tell.”
Demetri and his family own a very old, very popular restaurant in Greece—Santorini, coincidentally.
When I tell her Santorini is my last stop on this trip, she lights up and says she’ll be back by then, and we can cap it off with a meal—her treat. I agree immediately, because the more I talk with Petra, the more I think we could be real friends.
Meeting Petra almost feels like fate.
We spend the rest of the afternoon appreciating the art and giggling at the pieces we don’t understand.
She even asks me to stand in for a few test photos so she can play with the light and angles. It feels awkward at first, but Petra is so bubbly and encouraging that soon I’m doing subdued fashion poses while she directs me around the room.
And I feel myself letting my hair down—figuratively and literally—when Petra tells me to take my ponytail out and shake it free.
“Oh yes, darling, just like that—παν?μορφη!” she calls, making me genuinely throw my head back and laugh. She laughs too, then sighs dramatically. “Gisele, eat your heart out.”
“Thank you so much for this, Petra,” I say, pointing a stern finger at her. “Make sure these never see the light of day.”
“These are exclusive!” she gasps. “I would never share them. Promise…”
She holds out her pinky.
And my smile drops.
“I promise, honey.”
I flinch so hard from Teddy’s voice in my head that it’s embarrassing.
All the promises he broke.
How stupid I was to believe him.
I feel my breathing shorten, and Petra’s face melts into concern.
“Hey, hey,” she says softly. “It’s alright. What’s got you in a tizzy?”
“I would rather—er—not do that,” I stutter, feeling like an absolute idiot. Petra looks hurt for half a second, which makes me feel worse. “God, no, Petra, I’m sorry. Fuck—fuck—I don’t—shit, I’m sorry—”
“Shh… Indie, it’s alright, love,” she murmurs, guiding me to a bench. She sits beside me and puts a hand on my shoulder while I force myself to breathe. In. Out. In. Out. Over and over until the burning in my chest stops.
I think I’ve been grieving Teddy for the last seven months already, but I’m reminded again that grief isn’t linear. Healing doesn’t run on a schedule. Distance is good. Escape is good.
But the hurt still lingers like a weight you don’t realize you’re carrying until something knocks you off balance.
“My ex-boyfriend used to do that,” I say finally, shaking my head to clear him away. “And he broke a lot of fucking promises, so…”
“Oh,” Petra says softly, then scoffs. “What a prick.”
Even with the pain still lodged in my chest, I laugh.
“Yeah,” I say. “That’s about right.”
A prick.
And also manipulated.
Both can exist at once.
As a doctor, I can recognize that Teddy was being manipulated by his mother. As an ex-girlfriend, I can recognize that he hurt me deeply, over and over again, and I feel so fucking angry and frustrated and irritated with him.
I love him, but I don’t trust him. I want him next to me, and I want him to stay away. I miss him, and I hate him. It’s confusing, and somehow, it’s not.
My head spins a little, and I rub at my forehead.
“Do you have any plans for tonight?” Petra asks.
When I look over at her, her expression is open and kind.
I shake my head.
“Would you like to join me for dinner? A couple of my friends are flying in for the wedding, and they should be landing in an hour. We’re going out tonight. Would you like to come?”
My first instinct is to say no, because no matter how comfortable I feel with Petra, I don’t know these people. I think of my comfortable bed back at the hotel suite, the tub, and a hot bath and quiet relaxation.
But then I realize how many nights I can have that back in Jersey, but how this is a once-in-a-lifetime experience. New friends, even if it’s just for the vacation. I can always go back to the hotel if I’m not having fun.
Then, Ellie’s voice in my head.
“Live a little, Indie girl.”
“You… they wouldn’t mind?”
Petra laughs, her whole face lighting up.
“Goodness, no. Half of our group are strays!”