Page 5 of Since the Day We Left

Insurance: $440.

Her personal expenses had been whittled down to almost nothing—no cable, no streaming services, and groceries purchased strategically around sales and soon-to-expire markdowns.

Last month, she’d cleared $1,773 in sales. The month before: $2,105.

The credit card she’d sworn never to use for business expenses now carried a $6,200 balance, while her savings account had dwindled to $11,437—enough for perhaps five more months at this rate.

Back in her old life, she’d earned enough to never check price tags, to hail cabs without calculating the cost, and to order takeout without a second thought. Six figures plus bonuses, direct deposited and largely unappreciated while she’d been too busy to spend it. The irony wasn’t lost on her—having money when she was too miserable to enjoy it, and now finding joy in work that couldn’t sustain her. At forty-five, she should’ve been well on her way to retirement planning, not starting over.

The shrill ring of her phone cut through her ruminations. Laurel’s name flashed on the screen—her former boss at Pinnacle Hotels.

Wendi’s finger hovered over the green button. She could’ve let it go to voicemail. But ...

“Laurel, hi.” She kept her voice even.

“Wendi! Finally, I get to hear that voice again.” Laurel’s words came in rapid-fire, overlapped with Manhattan traffic. “How’s that tiny beach town treating you?”

“It’s good. Quiet. Just what I needed.”

“So ... tell me you’ve gotten this art phase out of your system, because I’ve got an offer you won’t want to pass up.” The familiar intensity in Laurel’s voice made Wendi’s chest tighten.

“I’m listening.”

“Singapore’s back on the table, and I need someone who speaks their language—metaphorically speaking. I want you. Better hours than before. More work-life balance. Three days a week in the city and one weekend a month—you could keep your beach cottage. Starting salary will be twenty percent higher than when you left.”

The amount made Wendi’s knees buckle. She gripped the edge of the counter for support.

More than The Painted Shell would make in three years.

“You don’t have to answer now,” Laurel continued. “Take two weeks. The position opens on the fifteenth, but I’m holding it for you. The board specifically asked for you.”

Wendi took a deep breath. “That’s ... generous.”

“It’s pragmatic. We’ve been through three people since you left—none of them had your instincts.” A car horn blared in the background. “Take your time. Think it over. Call me when you’re ready to rejoin civilization.”

The call ended, leaving Wendi clutching her phone, heart racing and palms damp—the same creeping symptoms that had preceded her breakdown.

Laurel Sullivan was the woman who’d plucked her from the marketing department eight years ago after hearing her smooth over a catastrophe with an irate hotel client. “You have a gift for reshaping reality,” Laurel had told her. “You don’t just solve problems—you make people forget there was ever a problem at all.”

It had felt like a compliment then. Four promotions and countless crises later, Wendi recognized it for what it was—Laurel’s talent for identifying useful tools. That’s what she’d been—a tool to deploy against bad press, disgruntled clients, and public relations nightmares.

Still, they’d made a formidable team. Wendi crafting narratives that transformed ordinary hotels into exclusive experiences, Laurel cutting through corporate politics to implement them. When a celebrity trashed a penthouse suite, Wendi had not only prevented negative press but had somehow spun it into a feature in Architectural Digest about the hotel’s renovation program. When bedbugs had been discovered in the Chicago location, she’d managed to redirect focus to their new organic cleaning protocols, actually increasing bookings the following quarter.

She’d been good at it. Too good, perhaps. Good enough that even her spectacular meltdown hadn’t completely burned her bridges.

Feeling her heart rate climbing, Wendi closed her eyes and pressed her fingertips together into a fragile steeple. She then pushed her palms against each other, focusing on the pressure points where they connected. With each point of contact, she mentally named a color in her studio—cadmium red, cerulean blue, burnt amber, titanium white—a grounding technique her therapist had taught her.

Dr. Abrams’ voice echoed in her memory: “Anxiety tells us stories about a future that may never happen. Bring yourself back to what is real right now.”

Real: the pressure of my palms, the colors surrounding me, Max’s steady presence beside me.

She reached for the bottle of water she kept behind the counter, savoring the sensation of cool liquid against her throat, the weight of the bottle in her hand. Eighteen months ago, this same trigger would have sent her spiraling. Six months ago, she might have needed to call Dr. Abrams. Today, she could still feel the anxiety—uncomfortable, yes, but no longer terrifying. No longer defining her.

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