Me:
Deal.
Beth:
And Peter?
Me:
Yeah?
Beth:
I’m glad Tammy likes you. She’s an excellent judge of character.
I set the phone down, finish my coffee, and go make sure I have all the ingredients for tonight’s dinner.
SEPTEMBER
CHAPTER 46
THE SILENCE BETWEEN US IS LOUDER THAN TORONTO.
DARCY
The email to Martin takes four minutes to write.
I know because I watch the clock on my laptop the entire time, expecting it to feel harder than this. I’ve spent weeks agonizing over this decision—lying awake, running scenarios, weighing the partner track against the purple toothbrush in my bathroom as if they belong on the same scale. But when I finally sit down to do it, the words come out clean and certain, and the only thing I feel when I hit send is relief.
Martin,
I appreciate everything you’ve offered, and I want to have this conversation properly, in person. I’ll be in Toronto next week. I’d like to meet to discuss my formal resignation.
Resignation. Not leave extension. Not deferral. Resignation.
I close my laptop and sit for a moment, waiting for the panic to begin. The tightness in my chest, the shallow breathing, the familiar spiral ofwhat are you doing? You’re throwing everything away. This isn’t the plan. But it doesn’t come. The only thing in my chest is a quiet certainty that’s been buildingsince the night Beth slept in my bed and I woke up to her burning toast in my kitchen.
I know what I want. I’ve known for a while. The only thing left is to go back and make it official.
The hard part isn’t quitting.
The hard part is telling her.
She’s at my place after work, cross-legged on the couch, with her laptop open and a pencil tucked behind her ear. She’s reviewing the updated marina plans and working on the revised proposal with a focus that makes her brain hum at its best frequency. Papers spread across the cushions, sticky notes on the coffee table, three different highlighters uncapped and slowly drying out because she keeps putting them down and forgetting to close them.
I sit on the edge of the coffee table across from her, and my posture must give me away because she looks up before I’ve said a word.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong.” I take a breath. “I need to go back to Toronto.”
The shift is instant. Subtle, but I see it—her spine straightens almost imperceptibly, her fingers go still on the keyboard, her expression smooths into something carefully neutral. The mask. I haven’t seen it in weeks, and I hate that I’m the one who put it back on.
“Okay,” she says. Even. Measured. “When?”
“Monday. I need to resign in person. Pack up the condo. Tie up loose ends.” I lean forward, trying to close the distance she’s already creating. “Beth, I’m coming back. This isn’t?—”
“You don’t have to say that.”
