Page 76 of Release Me

“I adored, Talia,” he says, and my heart twists itself into a knot. “I still do, but I don’t think I ever loved her. We got along great, we worked well together, we had great sex.” My jaw clenches, and he laughs, running a soothing hand over my leg. “Nothing like the sex you and I have, precious,” he adds before continuing, “but none of that was enough for love or marriage. To have those things, you just need…more.”

For some reason, my heart is racing and my mind is rushing with thoughts of what more means to him and if he thinks it exists between us.

“Do you think you’ll ever find it? The more you’re looking for?”

“I think I already have.”

We both go quiet in observation of what he’s just confessed, and I curse myself for not being able to say something meaningful back, for not being able to be open the way he always is.

“It’s okay, precious, you don’t have to say anything back,” he says, obviously aware of what’s going on inside my head.

“I don’t pray, Sebastian,” I blurt out, needing to say something, to lay some part of myself bare to him as a means of reciprocation for his vulnerability. “I don’t pray, but on the rare occasion I find myself in conversation with God, I talk to him about you. Even before we were us, I spoke your name to Him, submitted it to the heavens at the top of a list of the few things in this world I’m thankful for. I don’t believe or trust in anything, but I trust you. I believe in you. And I know that maybe that’s not enough—” my voice shakes and all my words disappear.

“It’s enough,” Sebastian says, dropping a kiss on my head that tells me I don’t need to say anything else. “It’s more than enough.”

After our emotional conversation and a delicious lunch straight from Elle’s kitchen, I head back to my office to finish out my work day. I send emails and make staff schedules and field phone calls from an anxious bride who is having her wedding reception on the rooftop on a day when it’s supposed to pour down raining. She cries to me for fifteen minutes about how the weather will ruin her bridal hair, and after I reassure her that we have a contingency plan in place if the forecast is correct, I hang up the phone and call Zoe to make an appointment to fix my hair. She laughs as she goes through her appointment book and finds me a slot for later on in the week.

I’m in the process of adding the appointment to my calendar when I see a reminder in there about the birth control implant in my arm expiring in three months. I’ve had it in for close to three years now, and I’ve been hoping to establish care with a gynecologist in town to talk about other options, but I haven’t had time to do any research about where I can or should go. And I still don’t. Pulling out my phone, I shoot off a text to the only person whose recommendation I trust: Desiree.

Nadia: Hey, who’s your gynecologist?

She gets back to me immediately.

Desiree: Why you need to know that?

Nadia: Because I have a vagina, and I need someone to look at it every now and again and tell me everything is alright.

Desiree: Isn’t that Sebastian’s job now?

I roll my eyes, cursing myself for bringing her up to speed on the new developments in my relationship with Sebastian while he was at his place getting dressed for work.

Nadia: Someone with a medical license, Des.

She sends three eye roll emojis and then an actual response.

Desiree: I see Dr. Suffrant at the New Haven Women’s Center. She’s the best.

Nadia: Thank you.

I close out the thread before she can respond and find the number to Dr. Suffrant’s practice. The receptionist answers immediately and she’s very friendly, which I take as a good sign, but the good vibes end when she tells me Dr. Suffrant is booked until the end of November and asks if I’m okay with waiting that long. Since I have plenty of time before it expires, I agree and add yet another appointment to my already busy calendar.

Just as I’m closing out the calendar app, a notification from my bank comes across the top of my phone screen. I click on it, opening my banking app to reveal a payment reversal from the realty company in the amount of my first and last month’s rent plus my security deposit.

“What the hell?” I mutter to myself, slamming my phone down on my desk so I can use both hands to dig through my purse and find Nikki Washington’s card. I find it at the bottom, wrinkled but still legible, and dial her number. She picks up on the first ring.

“Nikki Washington of Washington Realty, how may I help you?”

“Nikki.” I smile even though she can’t see me, hoping it will infuse some kindness into my agitation laced tone. “This is Nadia Hendrix, Sebastian Adler’s?—”

“I know who you are, Miss Hendrix,” she says, cutting me off. “What can I help you with today?”

“Oh, well, I just got a notification about a payment reversal from your company back to my account. It looks like it’s everything I paid the day I signed my lease.”

Silence greets me, and I assume she’s just as shocked as I am, but when it lingers, going on for longer than I expect, I pull the phone away from my face to make sure she’s still on the line.

“Nikki?”

“Yes! I’m so sorry. I was just trying to pull up your file.” Since I don’t hear her fingers clicking on the keyboard, it sounds like a lie, but I don’t call her out for it. “Okay, I’m not seeing the payment return here on my end, but let me look into this for you and call you back. Best case scenario is it was a glitch in our system.”

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