chapter 6
No one came after me when I walked out. They were too busy deciding whether to console the man with wine on his head or the girl who had perfected the art of helplessness.
Outside, the evening air felt like clean sheets. I stood on the sidewalk a long time, watching taxis go by and reading the orange blur of taillights like a new alphabet. When I finally moved, I went home, filled three boxes with clothing, two with books, one with the chipped mugs I loved, and left my engagement ring on the dining table like a little silver moon that didn’t know what to pull the tides for anymore.
I booked a week at a serviced studio across town with a kitchenette and a view of the river. The receptionist slid me a keycard and asked if I was here for business or leisure.
“Neither,” I said, and for the first time in months, I didn’t explain myself.
The first two nights, I slept like a fever breaking. On the third, I woke at 3 a.m. to the soft blue of my phone. The group chat that had once organized birthdays and housewarmings had become a tribunal. I scrolled without tapping.
Someone: Chloe really overreacted. She embarrassed everyone.
Someone else: She poured wine on him. That’s assault.
A third person: Are you serious? He took wedding photos with another woman.
Ashley had posted a photo of her hand cupping a teacup, the now-missing pendant artfully out of frame. The caption read: Letting go is hard, but loving people means understanding their limits. Please don’t blame anyone. I’m okay.
There were a thousand comments. None of them mentioned the way my mother’s funeral had looked from my side of the world: a white lilies smell, a pastor who’d mispronounced her name, an empty seat that stayed empty even after the slideshow started.
The next morning, I called my boss, told her I needed three days off, and promised to work evenings to catch up. She didn’t ask why. People who manage teams of tired designers know the tone of a woman dismantling her old life with a box cutter.
By noon, I’d found a storage unit and scheduled a mover. By evening, I’d replaced every password. Inns. Email. Bank. The wedding website. I took down the home page with our faces and the countdown clock.
“Thirty-one days to forever!” it had chirped.
I watched the animation of confetti vanish when I hit publish on the blank page.