Unconditional

I should be relieved, but instead, I feel off-balance, like I’m teetering on the edge of that empty chasm, the future. Unknown. A vision of the future rears up, life on my own again: being the odd person out at dinner parties, the whispers and side-eyed gossip. The endless parade of first dates and set-ups, brushing off the past like it’s a dirty secret, while all around me, my friends have their babies and family vacations; kids’ birthday parties and first days of school—

No.

I stop myself before I can fall into fear, dialing Alexander’s office line. It’s after six p.m. now, but his secretary answers, bright and perky.

“Hi, Carina! I’ll see if he’s around.”

“No, don’t,” I reply quickly. “I just have a message.”

“Sure thing!”

“Tell him I won’t be able to make the Janssen dinner,” I say. “Tell him he shouldn’t make any plans for me from now on.”

“Um, OK.” His secretary sounds hesitant. “Anything else?”

“That’s all.”

I hang up, my heart racing. It won’t be so easy: I still have things at his house, credit cards in his name, all kinds of tangled, messy details to pull apart from his life. He won’t make it simple—he may not love me, but God if Alex doesn’t hate to lose. My leaving makes him look bad, a big slip in the eyes of all our fancy friends, the clients at his firm. There’ll be awkward questions at parties for weeks, with him having to trip up to find some explanation for my absence.

If he was angry before…

I shut my phone in the drawer and force myself to stay calm. Right now, Alex isn’t my problem. He’s the past I’m leaving behind, and now, my biggest focus should be my future. The big, empty question mark of a future I need to figure out before I can make my next move.

What move is that, then? a voice taunts me.

My day stretches in front of me, silent and empty.

I feel a pang of sadness. Back home, I would be getting ready for a lunch appointment, or at the salon for a blow-out. There would be friends to catch up with, shopping to do, dinners to plan, groceries to buy for Alexander’s favorite meals. It wasn’t important work, sure, but it was my life: a routine of tasks to span my days, full of activity and purpose.

Now, I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.

I wander around the living room, now all different from how it was when we were kids. There’s new furniture, different curtains hanging from the windows. My eyes land on the corner of the room, a solid shape draped with fabric and covered with stacks of books and old photos.

I drift over, clearing the top until I can pull the velvet drape aside.

My mother’s old piano.

I sit at the stool, resting my hands on the polished wooden lid. I used to sit beside her here, watching her play. Dad hated the noise, so she taught me in secret, while he was still at work. Chopsticks and simple melodies to start, picking out the keys with one finger. Then, later, longer pieces, whole songs taking shape under our hands as she laughingly corrected me, always patient with my mistakes. When I was older, it became my secret pastime, the one thing I’d do whenever nobody was around. I would sit right here for hours, picking out the tune to my favorite songs until I could play along, singing in the empty hush of the house, all to myself. It was the one time I ever felt centered, at peace, like I could lose myself in the sound of the music, away from everything that was bringing me down.

I need that escape now, more than ever, so I lift the lid and test a chord, the keys smooth under my touch. But the notes come discordant and wrong, like they’re taunting me. I feel foolish for even trying. It’s been so many years, of course the piano is out of tune. I feel a swell of loneliness in my chest, and look around, helpless.

What now? The whisper of the empty room seems to say.

What now?

I shut the piano with a clatter, then get up to grab my purse.If I have to figure out a plan for the rest of my life now, I’m going to need a drink.

6

Jimmy’s Tavern is a worn-out dive, half-empty and dim. I step cautiously through the door and look around the room, absorbing the scene of locals playing pool, the scatter of peanut shells on the floor. It’s nothing like the polished bars I’m used to, serving cocktails and the finest wines. Here, Springsteen plays from an old jukebox, and you can bet there are no ten-dollar cocktails and craft beers on tap.

I’m tempted to turn around and leave right away, but I force myself to walk over to the bar. I’ve been avoiding Garrett for days now, but I need to face him sometime. This, at least, will be safe. In public, a long bar between us. Civil. No risk of a repeat of the scene on the porch that day, and the tidal wave of crazy emotions he brought to the surface.

That was just you still reeling from Alexander, I tell myself sternly. You’ve had time to get a clear head now. You won’t be reduced to some stuttering pool of desire by the first handsome man you see.

“Carina?”

I look up. Garrett has emerged from the back of the bar, staring at me in clear disbelief. Damn. I thought these jeans and silk blouse were casual enough to blend in, but I look way too dressy in my gold flats, with my hair falling loose.

“Hi, Garrett.” I give him an even smile, even as I feel my pulse start to speed up again. Relax, I order myself. Nothing happened with him, just some friendly teasing, that’s all.

Teasing that got you hotter than you’ve been in your life before.

“So this is your bar?” I ask brightly, looking around. “It’s charming.”