Chương 6
I hated even more that understanding still felt like something he could give me.
The taxi stopped at a light.
A cyclist in a yellow rain jacket coasted past.
I wrote, Not today.
Preston responded before the light changed.
I made a mistake.
My hand went cold.
Mara saw my face.
"What?"
I showed her.
She read the screen.
"Of course he did."
I said nothing.
"He had three years to make mistakes while dating you."
"Helpful."
"He doesn't get to classify breaking up with you as an administrative error."
"I said helpful."
She folded her arms.
"I'm trying."
"I know."
At the airport, I went to the restroom before security and listened to Preston's voicemail in a stall.
His voice sounded different from Friday.
Less controlled.
"Eve, I know I handled this badly."
I pressed my forehead against the metal partition.
"I panicked, okay?"
He exhaled.
"I thought ending it would make me feel relieved, and it didn't."
My eyes closed.
"I went to the apartment."
A pause.
"I couldn't take my stuff."
Another pause.
"I just stood there like an idiot."
I could picture it too easily.
Preston in our kitchen.
The blue mug he always used.
His running shoes by the door.
The photograph from Maine on the refrigerator.
"I know I don't deserve anything from you right now."
His voice cracked slightly.
"But can you call me?"
The message ended.
I stayed in the stall.
Someone at the sink outside hummed under her breath.
A hand dryer started.
A child complained loudly that soap smelled bad.
Life continued with almost offensive consistency.
When I came out, Mara was waiting near the entrance.
"You listened."
I nodded.
"Want to tell me?"
"No."
"Okay."
That was one of the reasons Mara had remained my friend for nine years.
She knew when curiosity became cruelty.
On the flight home, I slept badly for twenty minutes and dreamed my father was trying to repair the espresso machine Preston had not actually taken.
When I woke, the seatbelt sign was on.
My cheek had a crease from my sleeve.
Mara was reading a murder mystery beside me.
"Did you drool?"
"No."
She looked at my shoulder.
"Maybe."
"Never speak of it."
By the time we landed in New York, it was after nine.
Cold air followed us through the taxi line.
I turned on my phone.
There were two texts from Preston.
No pressure.
I'm sorry.
Then there was an email from Diane Walsh.
I opened hers first.
Sterling Capital wanted a follow-up meeting Thursday morning.
Mara read over my shoulder and made a small victorious noise.
"We're still alive."
"Apparently."
"Thursday."
"I saw."
"We need to prep."
"Tomorrow."
"Absolutely."
The taxi dropped Mara at her apartment first.
She hugged me through the open door.
"Do not call him tonight."
"I won't."
"Do not go through old photos."
"I won't."
"Do not interpret either billionaire emails or breakup messages after midnight."
"That one feels targeted."
"It is."
She shut the door before I could respond.
My apartment was dark when I arrived.
I stood outside for several seconds with my key in the lock.
Part of me expected Preston to be inside.
He wasn't.
The rooms felt exactly as I had left them and completely different.
His coat was gone from the hook.
His shoes were gone.
The shelf beside the television had an empty space where his gaming console had been.
But the espresso machine remained on the kitchen counter.
I stared at it.
Then I saw the key.
It lay beside the sugar bowl.
Under it was a folded note.
I knew Preston's handwriting before I touched it.
I should have thrown it away.
Instead, I opened it.
Eve, I couldn't do this right.
I read the sentence.
Then the next.
I don't know if I ended us because I wanted out or because I got scared that this was permanent and I wasn't ready to admit how scared I was.
My throat tightened.
The note continued for almost a page.
There was no grand declaration.
That somehow made it worse.
He wrote about the apartment.
About my father's death.
About how I had changed afterward.
About how he had felt himself becoming careful around me because grief seemed to occupy every room.
Then came the sentence that hurt differently from the voice message.
I think I started resenting you for needing me when I didn't know how to be needed.
I sat on the kitchen floor.
The refrigerator hummed beside me.
For a long time, I did nothing.
Then my phone buzzed.
I almost ignored it.
The message was not from Preston.
It was from Adrian.
I shouldn't have emailed you from my work account.
I stared at it.
A second message followed from an unfamiliar number.
This is better.
I looked at the empty kitchen.
At Preston's key.
At his note.
At the espresso machine he had left behind.
Then I typed, Your definition of better is unusual.
Three dots appeared.
I waited.
His reply came.
My sister says that often.
I hesitated.
Then, against every sensible instinct I possessed, I wrote, She seems perceptive.
The typing indicator vanished.
Returned.
Vanished again.
Finally his message arrived.
She is.
That answer carried something heavier than the others.
I read it twice.
Then another message came.
She also thinks I should leave you alone.
I stared at the screen.
For reasons I could not yet name, that was the first thing Adrian Sterling had said that genuinely frightened me.
I did not answer immediately.
The kitchen light above me had a faint electrical buzz I had been meaning to fix for six months.
It suddenly seemed intolerable.
I stood, crossed the room, and switched it off.
The apartment went dark except for the glow from my phone.
Adrian's message remained on the screen.
She also thinks I should leave you alone.
I typed, Does she usually give good advice?
I deleted it.
May you like
Then I typed, Why?
I stared at the single word for almost a minute before sending it.
