I hung up. Then I called the spa, then the hotel, then the florist. Then I called the boutique where I'd bought the necklace and asked about their return policy.
By noon, I had erased her birthday. By 2:00 p.m., I had packed my clothes, my electronics, and my documents into my car. By 4:00 p.m., I was gone. I left nothing behind but the spare key on the counter and the echo of her telling me that her betrayal was my issue.
She was right. It was my issue, and I had just solved it.
I spent Friday afternoon in a state of unnatural calm. I had checked into a corporate suite hotel on the other side of the city—a place generic enough to be untraceable, comfortable enough to work from. My phone was on the coffee table, face up. I hadn't blocked her number yet. I needed the confirmation. I needed to know the message had been received.
Around 4:00 p.m., Maya texted me: Leaving work now. Going straight to Sarah's to get ready. Can you bring that red tie I like? The one that matches my dress. See you at 7:30. Love you. Hugs and kisses.
I stared at the screen. The audacity was almost impressive. Less than 72 hours ago, she had told me my feelings were a psychological defect she shouldn't have to deal with. Now, she was ordering accessories for her big night out, fully expecting me to play the role of the doting boyfriend, the wallet, and the prop.
I didn't reply.
At 6:00 p.m., another text: Hey, just checking in. Are you on your way? Traffic is crazy.
I took a sip of the bourbon I'd poured myself. I wasn't on my way. I was watching a documentary about deep-sea shipwrecks. I felt a kinship with the ocean floor: cold, pressurized, and silent.
At 7:15 p.m., the group chat—which included Maya, Sarah, and two other friends, Jen and Chloe—lit up. Sarah sent a photo: a selfie of the four of them in the Uber. Maya looked stunning in a black silk dress I had bought her for Christmas. She was beaming, holding a glass of champagne, looking like the queen of the world. Caption: Birthday queen en route! Hey Mark, where are you? We're thirsty!
I felt a phantom twinge of guilt—a muscle memory of my old self, the nice-guy Mark who would have panicked at being late. But then I remembered Gavin. I remembered the cuddle. I remembered reason: no longer needed. The guilt evaporated.