Kenton St. Clair didn't come back to the apartment with me to watch me pack up. That'd be absurd. He had his security team do it, which felt all the more embarrassing. They silently watched me pack everything into my wheeled suitcase. They silently watched me purchase my airfare. They requested that I email the invoice to a specific accounts payable email, and I got the notification that I'd be reimbursed mere moments later.
Who knew corporate America could be so efficient?
Considering I didn't have anywhere else to go, and the flight I got was only a few hours later, they dropped me off at LaGuardia with silent nods. So, here I sit in Terminal B, with nothing to keep my attention but my phone and the millions of thoughts racing through my head. I pick at the limp salad I picked up from one of those grab-and-go kiosks directly outside of security. A wrinkled tomato bursts between my teeth, and I cringe at the decidedly off texture.
I don't know if I still have a job. I can't talk to Brooke, or IknowI won't have a job. I don't know what happens next. Financially, I'll be okay—assuming I can find another job in the next two years. Shit, I'm getting ahead of myself. Maybe Atmosphere will take my profession of love into consideration, and I'll go back to Onboarding Directing in a few short weeks.
Maybe Brooke and I will be okay. Maybe. Who knows?
Eyeing my phone, it's definitely too late to call Alicia. My thumb hovers over Brooke's contact info. I want to call her so bad. I want to tell her it'll be alright, no matter what happens. I want to ask her to come see me in Chicago. I want to sleep in her cramped bedroom in Brooklyn. I want to scratch Huey behind the ears and under the chin, just the way he likes it.
Will I ever get that chance again?
Heaving out a defeated sigh, I click my phone off and stare out the massive windows. I watch the patterns in the blinking lights on the runway. They flash in threes.I love her. I love her. I love her.My constant sighs morph into distressed groans. I hate this. I hate this feeling. I hate not knowing.
I adore a plan. I spend hours making airtight plans in all parts of my life, but when Brooke waltzed right in and smashed my careful goals to pieces? I loved her for it. I still love her for it. She's always been absolutely fearless, and Iso badly wish I had a little of her bravery right now. If I could just talk to her, everything would be okay.
I desperately want everything to be okay. It will be, or that's what I try to convince myself as I while away the hours in this fucking airport. The plane to Chicago rolls up to the gate, and I gather my things. I can only bring myself to tightly smile at the flight crew once they allow us to board and settle into our seats for this red-eye flight.
Usually, I'd be happy the flight only takes a few hours. Thanks to modern technology, I can be home before my sister and her unruly brood wake up. But it all starts to feel more real as the jet takes off from the runway, jolting me into my seatmate who looks even less awake than I am. He's an older man, grey whiskers forming his scraggly beard, with tired blue eyes and a New York Yankees baseball cap.
He pulls the hat low over his eyes and quickly falls asleep the instant we're at cruising altitude. I envy him. I so badly want to let the world slip away for a few hours. Unfortunately, I can't. I've never been able to sleep on planes, and the anxiety running rampant in my bloodstream certainly isn't helping.
Yet, for the first time in many years, I don't pay for the in-flight WiFi. While everything else is crashing down around me, that at least feels like a big middle finger to Atmosphere.
My emotions ping-pong from one extreme to the other. I'm crushed, but I'm furious. They worked me to the bone for years (not for nothing, my paychecks are pretty good) but won't even allow me to explain? And I can't talk to Brooke, the one person who I know would make it all okay.
Misery swirls in my chest as the plane descends, and I robotically follow the flight crew's directions when we sidle up to the gate. I don't even know how I left the airport in one piece, but a cab driver gives me a sullen thumbs-up when I show him my address.
Exhausted and defeated, I stagger into my condo right as the sun peeks over the Chicago skyline. My eyes feel as dry as the desert, and my throat feels parched. Recycled airplane HVAC always makes me feel disgusting, and the situation with work (and Brooke) makes me feel even worse.
The tasteful minimalistic design of my home feels sterile. Stale. Empty. It's the polar opposite of Brooke's cluttered and cozy bedroom. There's no lingering scent of vanilla extract. There's no weird roommate slurping on cans of spaghetti rings. There's nolife. It looks like the beige and white condo of a serial killer who desperately wants to fit in.
I don't want to live like this. Less than twelve hours ago, I was holding Brooke in my arms. I was kissing her againstthe wall. I was so grateful for her touch, for her support, forher. I miss her already. I can't do this.
My phone vibrates against my leg, and I scramble to get it—what if it's her? But disappointment rushes through me when I see it's just a marketing email from the airline. With a disgusted groan, I toss my phone onto the couch and rake my hands down my face. I'm spiraling. I recognize that I'm spiraling. I need to go to bed—maybe tomorrow will be better.
But I can't. I can't sleep. I haven't even tried, and I know I won't be able to. So, instead, I plod off to my shower and stand there, waiting for the water to run hot. I don't miss the luxury of that stupid apartment's tankless water heater. I kind of miss the view, but most of all, I just miss the proximity to Brooke.
I even kind of miss that conference room. Under those fluorescent lights, she shone bright like the sun. Her fiery rage enveloped me from day one, but she didn't burn me. She never could. She melted me. She melted away all those years of anger and resentment. She felt as refreshing and soothing as the gentle steam rolling out of my shower stall.
Shit, I miss her.
After taking a few days to mope around my condo, I finally call my sister. If I can't talk to Brooke, I know Alicia will tell me what I need to hear—not necessarily what Iwantto hear, though.
"Jeez, I thought you dropped off the face of the earth!" Alicia's laugh comes through the phone without ahello.
"Hey."
"Shit." Her tone drops, and I hear muffled static as she moves the phone away from her ear. "Kids? Mommy needs to have a grown-up conversation. Why don't you go see if Mr. Delaney's puppies are outside?"
The little chorus of voices yelling about puppies almost makes me smile. Almost.
"Delaney's dogs had puppies? Doesn't he know spaying and neutering is, like, the most important part of pet ownership?" I gripe.
"No, he's fostering. They're cute, and the kids love them. But that's not what you called to talk about, is it?"
"No." I fall silent and pick at the calloused skin on my thumb. "I don't know what to do, Leesh."
