Elevator. Street. Light. Crisp November air that gives me a much-needed boost of bravery.
On the sidewalk, I pull up my CheapFlightsapp and look up the cheapest tickets out of the States. I expect Europe or maybe Africa, but the universe has a joke for me. The next flight is to Bora Bora in six hours.
It will take almost all of my savings, but the universe has spoken. So I book it.
I go home and throw things into my carry-on: a passport, all the weather-appropriate clothes I can fit in, and the courage I pretend I was born with.
I text Maeve on the way out the door.
I love you. Don’t panic. I just need a minute to be a human.
Hopefully the landlord won’t vacate me while I’m gone since the lease has been paid for the rest of the month, but no one ever knows in this part of the city. Should the need arise, I’m sure Maeve would pull all my stuff from my landlord’s yellow teeth.
By the time I’m at Penn Station, ready to head to the airport, Martin has called five times. I don’t pick up because if I hear his voice, I might fold, and I am finally, gloriously unfolded.
Instead, I text him one line before I lose reception in the tunnel:
Tell Ezra I left detailed handover notes.
I get silence for exactly twelve minutes. The train lurches to a stop, and my phone explodes like a slot machine that hit a jackpot.
Ezra:
You resigned?
He just got back to the office and read it. Call me.
Martin:
He looks like he swallowed a grenade and is trying not to burp shrapnel. Where are you. The office will not survive this.
Maeve:
I support your spiral. Send me your flight info or I’ll assume you booked a cult retreat and come rescue you myself.
Noah:
Beatrice. Please answer.
I shut it all down. Airplane mode. World off. I don’t need them convincing me that I shouldn’t turn around and go back to the normal life I’ve been trying to build. Because Ijuststopped trying to convince myself.
When I stare out the window, the city begins looking a lot less like a trap and more like a postcard, and I feel a new, strange terror of being the only person responsible for me, mixed with excitement for the same reason. I’m going somewhere Maeve can’t help me. Neither can Martin. I will be on my own.
But I think I need that.
JFK is a fluorescent aquarium. Neon jellyfish people drift past me in puffer jackets. A barista shouts names he definitely misspelled. Someone’s suitcase commits a loud, rolling runaway. I’m just a dot in this tide, clutching my passport andscared that someone might come and steal this freedom from me.
Funny how this is the second time I’m running away from my life, but this time it feels more liberating and a lot scarier.
I’m going to throw up. Or cry. Or both. But the weird thing is—under the nausea and the sting behind my eyes—there’s a sliver of lightness, like someone unhooked a bra strap that’s been digging into my sternum the whole day.
Security is the usual theater. I undress down to the socially acceptable socks, jeans, and T-shirt. The TSA bin eats my shoes and a thrifted bag which is not Chanel. The agent scans my one-way ticket and arches an eyebrow as if I’ve just announced I’m fleeing a crime scene. Technically it’s just myself I’m running from, but sure, cuff me. Or maybe he’s just jealous that I’ve got the balls to escape the big-city prison.
I slide my phone out to double-check my gate and make the mistake of flicking airplane mode off for a few seconds. Notifications flood like a burst pipe.
Maeve:
Send landing time. I’m not kidding.
