Page 5 of Letting Go

I pull away. Gently. Just enough.

I move to the grocery bags and start putting things away like the world isn’t crumbling under my feet. “What happened with your car?” I ask, as casually as I can manage.

He shrugs. “No idea. Just wouldn’t start this morning. I’ll call the tow truck tomorrow.”

“Mmhmm.”

I don’t say anything else. Don’t look at him. Just nod and keep stacking cans like they’re going to save me.

“Listen,” he says, already turning away, already texting. “I’m gonna hop in the shower. Call me when dinner’s here?”

He kisses the top of my head like it means something and disappears upstairs. I hear the water turn on.

And then I move.

My heart is thundering, fingers trembling as I snatch his keys off the hook. I don’t even think, I just go. Out the door, into the driveway, into the car. My breath is shallow. I brace myself for silence.

I turn the key.

The engine roars to life without a single protest.

I sit there for a second, just breathing, just blinking at the dashboard like it betrayed me. My throat closes. Because a big part of me, a big, hopeful, desperate part of me, was hoping I was wrong. That I was just being paranoid. That grief and stress and burnout had made me suspicious and twitchy.

But no.

He lied.

I press my forehead to the steering wheel and close my eyes. My whole body feels like it’s buzzing, like my bones are vibrating from the inside out. Then I see the delivery guy pulling up, headlights washing over me like a spotlight.

I climb out, pay for the food, smile too wide. Take the bags inside like everything’s fine.

All I want to do is cry. But instead, I compose myself. Straighten my spine. And call him for dinner.

He comes down in sweatpants, rubbing a towel through his hair, looking like nothing is wrong. Like he didn’t lie to my face. We eat in silence for a few minutes before I say it, quiet and deliberate:

“So… who picked you up this morning?”

He looks up. “Huh?”

“Your car,” I say, picking at a dumpling. “It broke down, right? So, who did you call?”

He blinks. “Greg. I called Greg.”

Greg. The most made-up name in the world. Except, unfortunately for him, there is a Greg at his office. One who wouldn’t drive five minutes for his own wedding, let alone Mike’s half-baked car drama.

I don’t push it. Not yet.

“So,” he says after a pause, “you gonna look for another job?”

I take a sip of water. Stare at him over the rim. “Eventually.”

He nods. “Thought you liked it there?”

“Yeah, I did. I do. I’m good at my job.” I don’t mean to sound defensive, but my voice comes out hard. “But it doesn’t matter. Not when you’re a woman in a boys’ club.” I’ve been the legal counsel for Marx Media, a subsidiary of Marx Corporation for five years now.

He stays quiet.

“Ever since they hired Leonard six months ago as President. He’s been trying to fire me from week one. Even had the audacity to smile in my face while hiring my replacement and calling him my ‘second counsel.’”

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