“You’re not a shithead. You’re hurt.”
“I just…I don’t need a perfect life. But I do need some semblance of stability. I’d like a salary, for starters. And benefits. And regular hours. I had all that and more at Blue Mountain.”
“That’s fair. You can still have all that, Em. Just…don’t be rash.”
All these fucking tears. “I’m in love with him, Linds.”
She puts a hand on my back. “Which one?”
I shouldn’t laugh at that, but I do. So does she.
“Too soon,” I say.
“Is it?”
“How am I gonna get over him?”
My sister purses her lips. “I’m telling you, sleep on it before you make any big decisions. Here, I’ll go raid the nearest wine store, and we can hang out in your super cool cottage and get shit-faced off Chardonnay and cry our eyeballs out. Then we’ll get a good night’s sleep so you wake up with a clear head and a heart that doesn’t hurt so much. Then you decide if you should leave.”
I shake my head. “Samuel will come over. He’ll try to convince me to stay, but I can’t. In my gut, I know I have to get out of here.” I take a breath through my nose and straighten. “He messes with my head, clearly. Ever since we met, I’ve made one disaster of a decision after another. I have to go.”
Lindsey slowly nods. “Okay. If that’s the way you really feel, then let’s get you packed up and back home.”
“Can we still get shit-faced off Chardonnay?”
“Of course,” she says with a smile. “My treat. By the way, despite what my Instagram says, my life is not perfect. Far from it.”
But before I can ask her what she means, she shoves open her door. “If you’re worried about Samuel coming over, we should hurry.”
I turned off the heat in my apartment before I left, so it’s freezing when we arrive an hour later, weighed down by way too much luggage for two people.
I’ve never thought of my apartment as drab. It’s in a building that was once a textile mill back in the twenties. It has exposed brick walls, high ceilings, and enormous steel windows that overlook the city. I’ve always loved it.
I still do. But the evening’s low light paints everything a different shade of gray. Or maybe it’s just the cloud in perpetual residence above my head that’s got me feeling so down and lonely.
I’m also reminded that I’m living in a rental. Will I ever be able to afford to buy my own place? I’d love to own a home, a spot I could make my own with paint, cool fixtures, maybe even a wine closet.
Will I ever not have to sweat health insurance? And what about that retirement I want (really, need) to save for?
Cybersex. Love triangles. Wearing glittery shoes to a date that ended my career.
I have never felt more like a joke than I do now.
I look at my sister through the open bedroom door. Bless her heart, she’s busy unpacking my suitcase, carefully hanging up a pencil skirt in my teeny tiny closet. Watching her, I feel a surge of gratitude. Lindsey and I were close growing up. But as adults we’ve grown apart. Truth be told, I haven’t exactly missed her over the years.
But now I’m really glad she’s here. Even if her fancy clothes and car and diamonds are a stark reminder of the stability and success I definitely do not have and probably never will.
Headlights outside the window catch my eye. My stomach flips. Then clenches when I realize Samuel has no idea where I live. It’s both a relief and a crushing dose of reality.
I’m really doing this.
I’m really giving up the job and the guy and the life I love.
Closing my eyes against a barrage of tears, I head for the kitchen. My phone vibrates in my pocket, and my stomach flips again. I know without looking that it’s Samuel. He’s called a dozen times and left twice as many texts.
Where are you?
Please call me.
Can we talk?
I’m so fucking sorry.
I can’t stop thinking about you.
I hope you’re okay.
Just thinking about them opens the floodgates all over again. I texted him earlier, telling him that I was all right but that I needed time.
I know what I’m going to do. I just need to figure out what I’m going to say. My argument has to be watertight. And because Samuel is Samuel, he’s going to give me a lot of pushback, so I need to be prepared.
But I also know that Samuel is hurting right now. Badly. And I’m only hurting him more by not answering his calls.
Against my better judgment, I finally pick up the phone.
“Hey.”
“Em.” He lets out a breath. “Thank God, you answered. Where the fuck are you?”
The gravelly timbre of his voice makes my skin break out in goose bumps.