Total pages in book: 51
Estimated words: 48061 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 240(@200wpm)___ 192(@250wpm)___ 160(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 48061 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 240(@200wpm)___ 192(@250wpm)___ 160(@300wpm)
“You want to sit here putting words in my mouth?” she snaps. “I didn’t say we should break up or it wouldn’t work out. I said I’m not going be interrogated like a criminal every time I cancel plans. I can’t go back in time and call you. I’m sorry I left you waiting on me and wondering why I didn’t show up. That sucks but it doesn’t give you the right to—”
“The right to know where the fuck you went. Whatever was so important that you blew me off after months of being together.”
“Look, just because your dad is a controlling asshole doesn’t mean you have to fill his shoes now. I didn’t flake out to get my nails done or get drinks with Sasha or anything. You should know me better than that by now, and if you don’t, that’s not my problem. I’m not a teenager anymore—I have responsibilities, and you’re acting like a little boy with hurt feelings because you weren’t my top and only priority.”
“Comparing me to my dad is fuckin’ bullshit, and you know it This isn’t about being the center of the universe, it’s about you backing out with no explanation as soon as we decide to quit sneaking around and go public that we’re together. Given our history, what am I supposed to think?” I ask. Pulse pounding, I scrub my hands over my face, try to calm down.
“That I’m human and I screwed up. That you’re making this so much harder than it needs to be. You know what? I’m done with this conversation. I’ve apologized. If you can’t accept that, that’s on you. I’m leaving.”
“That is on-brand for you, isn’t it? Run off the second you’re uncomfortable. We might as well be teenagers cause you’re actin’ like a goddamn brat right now. Go ahead and go.”
I shove back my chair and storm out. I know as I walk out the door that I’m leaving her before she can leave me again. Adrenaline pounds through me as I drive off. I let my phone go to voicemail, and I just drive. All I know is I have to keep going, white knuckling the steering wheel and keeping my eyes on the road. Not sure how long I drive, but my truck’s low fuel light glows on the dashboard. When I look for a gas station, I realize I’m looking for an exit off the interstate. Once I fill up the tank and get a bottle of water, I look at my phone. I’ve been gone five hours, and I’m outside Rochester, New York.
I sit in my truck, head tipped back, and try to orient myself. I drove away from my life and I’m as lost as if I’d been sleepwalking. I check in with Willa. My dad’s okay, no worse than usual, and my assistant told everyone I was out sick.
“I hinted it might be food poisoning after a breakfast meeting,” she says.
“You’re a lifesaver. My breakfast meeting didn’t go to plan, and I had to get my head on straight. I’ll be in the office tomorrow.”
“No problem, boss,” she says.
Relieved, I hang up the phone. Logic tells me to eat something and drive straight home. I don’t want to do that. I’ve been to Rochester a couple times but not for years. I scroll my phone for attractions nearby and it clicks. This is where we went for her birthday when she turned twenty. I surprised her with a road trip to the Eastman photography museum. She was crazy about it and bought a big glossy book there about their collection. The book must’ve weighed ten pounds and she looked at it for hours on the drive back, reading me stuff out loud. I wonder if she kept the book when she skipped town, or if she left behind everything that might remind her of us.
I drive into the city and park outside this kitschy place she loved called the Little Theater—a shiny black Art Deco building where they showed weird artsy movies. I sat through a show about mouthy Irish kids trying to make it in the music business when we visited the place. She took about a million pictures that day. Pictures she dumped along with her phone when she left it all behind.
. I drive off and don’t look back. I’m at my office by seven and catch up on the work I missed. I return calls, but I never get one from her.
I walked out on her because the thing I’m most afraid of is losing her. I damn near didn’t live through it the first time. I did make this harder than it has to be—and if I want to get out of my own way, I need to explain that to her. I’ll call her tomorrow and hope she answers.