She lifted the phone again, and although she tasted the bitter salt of tears, her voice was steady as she phoned the travel agency and confirmed her Monday reservation. When the call was done, she resolutely turned the phone off. Abandoning her uneaten picnic, she fled Central Park and returned to the brownstone to begin getting on with the rest of her life. A life, she forced herself to consider, that might not include Evan. It seemed impossible, but an hour be–ore – only an hour? She leaned back, considered the clock hanging on the wall, and startled. It was nearly four pm – where had three hours gone? Boxes of books and clothes huddled in the corners, skulking, their shadows grown in the fading sunlight of an autumn afternoon. She’d thrown herself into her work, ignoring the hunger pangs she felt, and the rage simmering just under her skin. He’d stood her up! She had attempted to meet him, tried to work out their issues in a more adult fashion, and he had...he had stooped to a juvenile prank!
She cast a glance at the door, frowned, glanced away. What would she do if he didn’t come home?
What if they never spoke again?
Digging out her phone, she winced as she turned it on, and her heart leapt as it disclosed a message waiting for her. It was not, however, Evan: sighing as she sank to the couch, she pulled her legs up against her breasts. It was only the travel agency. A poke through the console table at the door turned up the Yellow Pages, and she carried them back to the couch. There was so much that needed to be done, she told herself, that it was ridiculous to spend a moment more mooning over a grown man who had a great deal more growing up left to do! She needed movers, and more boxes, and hell, a place to move things to! Resolutely scooping up the shelter mags, she fanned them out on the couch before her, digging in the clutter on the end table for Evan’s Airbook.
Her fingers froze over the keys as the Mac woke to the password, disclosing a Google search page”
“Divorce,” read the screen, the word typed under the cheery Google header of the day, stark black letters that contrasted with the colorful whirl that turned into a kaleidoscope as her eyes watered, filled, and leaked, unchecked, down her cheeks.
What felt like an eternity later, her leaden hand lifted her phone, scrolled through the list of inputted numbers. Evan had done that, painstakingly transferring each number from her bursting Rolodex. She bit her lip to keep the tears at bay, and stabbed the Talk button. It might be too late, she schooled herself, but hope sprang to life in her chest as a bored female voice answered, “Tradewind Travel.”
“Hello,” she responded. “My name is Winslow? I have reservations for Delta on Monday? To Seattle, that’s right. Could I change that reservation? I’m afraid my business is urgent,” she lied, twisting her sweating palms against her stifling coat. “Could I possibly leave tonight?”
A clatter of keys, a soft sigh into the phone.”Sure,” the voice returned. “I have another flight leaving at 9:15, a red-eye with a stopover in Chicago. You want that?” The twang of New Jersey showed in the girl’s voice, making Wynn wince. There was another thing she wouldn’t miss about New York City: the New Jersey accent. Anyway, she reasoned with herself, if she ever did, it wasn’t as if she couldn’t turn on Real Housewives of New Jersey. Surely, Seattle had television? It was hardly the Dark Ages out there. Feeling vulnerable, she crossed her arms over her breasts, and steeled herself for the jump. She had no time to waste, no reason to hesitate: it was time to close the deal, and the door.
“Yes,” she said, glancing around herself at the half-packed cartons, the books she would abandon, the things she didn’t need or would replace with copies that had never been Evan’s. “Yes, I want that flight.”
If he had given up so easily, so quickly, so quietly and without even the vestiges of a–fight – well, so could she.
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