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She wasn’t used to her family’s disapproval the way I was.
But maybe, over time, we could figure all that out. I just didn’t want to put any pressure on her.
She’d been pressured by her mom enough, all her life.
So I got up and I wrote her a note. I left it on my pillow for her to find when she woke up.
I’ll miss you. This time, please call me.
Then I went for a long walk in the night. Just trying to decide what to do with myself. I knew I loved her. I knew she couldn’t stay.
But I didn’t know how to do this. It hurt too fucking much.
I went back to the hotel, to my room, planning to pack my bag, maybe. Maybe I just had to get out of here, or I was gonna fuck up and ruin this for her, her last day with her family. Make some stupid scene at the brunch, or when she got up to leave.
I knew now, after lying in that bed and holding her, I couldn’t just watch her leave.
And I couldn’t sit there at brunch and pretend I didn’t love her.
I just couldn’t do that anymore.
But when I walked into my hotel room, I found an envelope with my name on it, tucked under the door. I knew, as I opened it, that it was from her. There was a note inside.
With just four words written on it.
ChapterThirty-Nine
Jolie
Iwoke up in the night to find myself alone in bed. Shane was gone. The bed was empty and cold next to me when I reached out.
And there was a note on the pillow.
I turned on the lamp by the bed, fast, and picked it up, my heart beating in my throat.
I’ll miss you. This time, please call me.
He left. Because I was leaving tomorrow.
This note was his goodbye.
My eyes flooded with tears. He wanted me to call him—from San Diego? And what, stay in touch? Exchange smoothie recipes? Like each other’s Instagram posts and slowly die inside as we watched each other go on with our separate lives, miles apart, while our parents kept us apprised of one another’s life highlights?
Have you heard? Shane has a beautiful new girlfriend! She’stres fantastique!
Fuck that.
I swiped the tears from my eyes so I could see straight enough to call down to the front desk. When they wouldn’t help me, I got dressed and went down to speak to them in person, again.
“Please. All I need is his room number.”
But they wouldn’t give it to me. Apparently, it was against hotel policy to give out the room numbers of handsome clientele who were being stalked by bedraggled, crying women in the middle of the night. Or to tell said women whether or not said handsome clientele had in fact already checked out or not.
“Could you please just call up to him, then?”
They called up to his room, but he didn’t answer. But at least that confirmed for me that he hadn’t checked out and taken off back to the city.
I’d see him at the newlywed brunch tomorrow, right?
