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I’m not willing to let you go.
I care about you too much.
Love,
Ian
My eyes fix on the four-letter word.
How he signs all his letters to friends?
Or just for me?
It must mean something. But I can’t let myself believe it.
This already hurts too much.
If he loves me—
I can’t deal with that possibility.
I read the card again and again. Until Ty taps on the table. Tells me we need to leave for the airport.
It stays in my head the entire ride. Does he love me? Can I forgive him? What the hell do the pages in the notebook say?
Chapter Fifty-Nine
Eve
First class is no private plane, but it’s still the second nicest flight I’ve ever experienced. I don a blindfold. Play The Ramones. Try to sleep.
It comes and goes.
Eventually, I give up. Request a tea. Eat the caprese sandwich Ty packed for me.
The lunch is good—fresh and simple—but the tea is terrible. Weak. Cold. Unable to comfort.
I read the note again and again.
Eventually, I peel open the first page.
Ian’s writing. A loose cursive script. A date on the right corner.
Years ago.
The year he divorced.
This is a ridiculous exercise. Am I really paying someone to tell me to write my thoughts? I’m perfectly capable of doing it for free.
Living well is insufficient revenge. But it’s a lot better than “self-reflection.” Who’s ever said “it’s fine my wife fucked another man for the last six months. It’s fine she groaned his name as she came. Thought of him when I fucked her. Swallowed his cum. It’s fine, because I’ve taken the time to sort out my feelings”?
Someone maybe.
Someone lying to themselves.
If only I’d learned that from her.
I guess that answers the did Ian really keep a journal question.
But the ones it raises…
I close the book. Slip it into my purse. Grab his marked copy of The Handmaid’s Tale in exchange. I shouldn’t appreciate it—he read it to get into my head—but I do.
Maybe some part of him had good intentions.
Maybe most of him.
But it hurts to consider that.
Chapter Sixty
Eve
There’s a car waiting for me at JFK. A chauffeur with my name written on a piece of paper. I want to say no, fuck you Ian, you don’t get a say in how I arrive home, you don’t get to pat yourself on the back.
But I want to spend the next hour in a cab less.
So I greet the driver, let him open a limo door for me, close my eyes, try to fall asleep.
Instead, my head fills with images of our afternoon in a limo. His lips on my neck. His hands on my ass. My shorts around my knees.
Fuck.
I give up on picturing anything else. Until the car stops in front of my apartment and the driver opens the door for me.
Addie runs down the stairs. Throws her arms around me. “I’m sorry.”
But I didn’t tell her. I didn’t say anything. Only that I’m arriving home soon. I guess that was enough. Or—”Did he?”
“His brother.”
“Oh.” I’m not sure if I’m relieved or disappointed. “I have to, uh… jet lag.”
“Tea first?”
“Yeah. But inside.”
She nods, grabs my suitcase, carries it upstairs, sits me at the table. “I got ice cream.”
“Mint chip?”
“Of course. That first? Or tea first?”
“Ice cream.”
“It’s that bad?”
“Worse.”
I tell her everything. Even the things she doesn’t know. The money. My website. The days left on the clock.
The way I felt whole when he held me.
The hurt in his eyes when I walked away.
And the words I’m desperate to consume.
I tell her everything. Then I climb into bed and I sleep.
A few hours here. A few entries there.
At some point, I shower, I eat, I change into clean pajamas. Then I climb back into bed and read more.
Pages and pages of raw pain. And not the pretty kind. Anger and violence that should scare me. That does scare me. But most of it isn’t directed at his ex-wife.
It’s at himself.
It’s like I can see him self-destructing in real time. Blowing up his entire life. Burning down every bridge. So he has no choice but to move to New York.
It’s as ugly as anything I’ve written.
Only for himself. And he’s offering it to me.
Because he really wants me to know?
Or because it’s the only play he can make?
My thoughts jumble. A mess of pain. An impossible lock. The only key in existence.
I finally sleep through the night.
Wake to an alert on my phone.
Six figures deposited in my account. It’s early. He has a few more days. But this…
This is it. Our deal is over. I never have to see him again.
I drag myself out of bed. Shower. Dress in actual clothes. Fix chai and leftover jalfrezi.
Then I read through his journal again. Everything, from start to finish. A few days after his ex served him with divorce papers, his move to New York, failed attempts to distract himself with alcohol, work, sex.
