Page 125 of Wait for Him

Hours ago I was smiling at my phone.

I'm staying at your place tonight.

Now there is nothing left in me. No anger. No rage. Not even heartbreak, which seems strange considering there should be enough of it to level the building. There is just this enormous vacancy where Rosalie Marie Bennett used to live, and from somewhere deep inside it, I can almost admire the efficiency of the thing. One revelation and we've cleared the whole damn premises.

A knock lands against the door, muted, and I realize everything is muted now. The traffic outside the windows, the hum of the refrigerator, my own footsteps as I cross the apartment. It's like the world got wrapped in cotton somewhere between the lobby and here, and I've been left standing on the wrong side of it. When I open the door, Michael is there looking gaunt, tie gone, eyes red-rimmed, something barely leashed moving underneath his expression. He takes one look at me and whatever he was prepared to say disappears.

"Rosalie."

He pulls me into his arms and holds on hard. "What's happened?"

"A lot," I say, answering the question beneath the question because I don't have enough energy left to sort through which version he actually asked.

He pulls back, hands still gripping my shoulders. "Hey. What's... Rose. Are you okay?" His eyes move over my face, searching for something, and I don't know what he's looking for or whether it's still in there to find.

"Not today."

His face changes, just slightly, and then I'm back in his arms, held even tighter while I stand there feeling absolutely nothing and wishing to God I could. Anger would be useful. Rage has always been useful.

This numbness, this nothingness, it's useless.

"Can you go home, Michael? I'll call you later."

"Okay." He doesn't move. "I'm worried about you, Rose."

"Me too."

It comes out flat and automatic, and I watch the honesty of it hit him harder than any lie could have. His face goes pale.

"Fuck, you're scaring me. I don't want to leave you like this. Can I just hang out on the couch? I'll be quiet. You won't even know I'm here."

Normally I would make fun of that, because Michael has never been quiet for longer than four consecutive minutes in his life, but even the joke refuses to show up.

"Please just go home."

He holds my gaze for a long moment, and I can see him running the same calculation he's been making our whole lives: push, or give her room. He's never once won by pushing. Finally he nods, but reluctantly, and his eyes stay on me like he doesn't trust the decision.

"I'll check on you later tonight. That's not a request. I'm telling you." His voice cracks on the way out. "I love you."

"Love you too."

The hesitation bleeds off him in waves all the way to the door. He pauses with his hand on the knob, looks back at me one more time, then leaves. I lock the door behind him, and the click of the deadbolt is the loudest thing I've heard in hours.

I stand there with my hand resting on the lock for a moment before moving to my laptop. There isn't a plan behind it. No dramatic realization or grand decision. I just sit down and start typing because some part of me has decided that if I can't control anything else, I can at least dismantle my own life in an orderly fashion.

Dear Laura,

Please accept this as my official notice of resignation. Effective in three weeks' time, I will be stepping down from my position as Senior Counsel and relinquishing my seat on the board. This is of a confidential nature; I will notify the board at a time of my choosing before the three weeks have ended.

Thank you,

Rosalie Bennett

I read it once, feel nothing, and hit send. Eight years of my life, closed in four sentences. There should probably be more ceremony involved. A luncheon. Champagne. One of those engraved plaques nobody actually wants. Instead I close the email and open the website for a storage company.

I fill out the profile, choose full-service packing, climate control, indefinite storage and answer every question the form puts in front of me. Estimated square footage. Fragile items. Insurance. Preferred date. I schedule a crew to come pack the apartment and pay the deposit without once stopping to consider where any of it will eventually be delivered. Only when I reach the field marked forwarding address do I pause.

I don't have one.