Page 87 of Wild and Bright

It doesn’t even take effort to keep my eyes from rolling. “You do, though. You know it’s not good for her to be away from her mother. She’s with me most of the time. I’m her stability. You’ve said that before.”

She crosses her arms across her chest. “How can you call yourself her stability when you might have another wild night in Vegas and fall asleep in the bathtub with her?”

I stare at her in silence, stunned that the words don’t hurt this time. What’s happened? How did that memory lose its hold over me? Maybe I see it now for what it is—her last resort, her final bargaining chip that she pulls out only in moments of absolute desperation.

And she’s lost it.

“This is exactly why I need time away from you. You know that day is a big source of guilt for me. You know it haunts me. And the fact that you would say something so cruel to control me shows how immature you are, and I’m not going to play your bullshit games with you anymore. When you’ve had time to cool down, you’ll realize ultimately that’s what’s best for Cadence.”

Her tiny nostrils on her perfect little button nose flare. She looks like she wants to stamp her feet like a child. Later—I hope—she’ll reflect on this moment and see how much I’ve grown. Maybe she’ll feel at least a small measure of relief, even if it’s only for Cadence’s benefit. But even if she doesn’t, I don’t care.

Not anymore.

TWENTY-SEVEN

Camden

One day at a time. I can live without trust, as long as I take it one day at a time.

The moment I step inside our house, I inhale deeply. It smells like her, as it has since she first moved in. I love the way she smells. I love coming home to it.

I love coming home to her.

I booked an earlier flight, because an apology like this needs to be in person. I could hardly sit still the whole flight home. There was a nagging fear that she might already be gone by the time I get there, but that’s not her style. She’ll probably raid my wine collection first. She’s probably at this moment in the cellar, her phone in front of her face as she tries to figure out the most expensive bottle I have.

I carry my suitcase through the foyer, smiling to myself like an idiot. Good God, I’m excited to see her. It’s been less than twelve hours since we last saw each other and I was an absolute bastard to her, and I’m still excited to see her.

Just as I brush past the living room, my smile vanishes. I know something in my gut that my brain can’t quite understand yet.

She isn’t here.

I turn around and scan the living room, but everything looks as it should. The succulent she bought a few weeks ago to add color to my blah grays and beiges sits on the coffee table. The decorative blanket Cadence sometimes cuddles up with when she watches her YouTube shows rests over the edge of the couch armrest.

And then it occurs to me. Her tripod. She always keeps it right at the edge of the couch. Why would she have moved it when she has at least three others around the house?

The world around me starts to buzz as I rush from the living room and run up the staircase.

She has to be here. She couldn’t have left already.

By the time I make it to her bedroom door, I already know what I’m going to find, but it doesn’t stop me from hesitating at the threshold, closing my eyes and willing it not to be true. When I finally work up the courage, I throw open the door, and even though I already knew what I would see, the breath leaves my lungs in an instant.

She’s gone.

There’s not a trace of her. The room looks almost sterile. The bed’s made, the floor and furniture surfaces clear. I ache for the sight of that pile of laundry on the chair by the window, or the tripod at the corner of the room, surrounded by abandoned makeup subscription boxes.

I walk to the bed as if in a dream, my vision blurred at the edges. I lower my hand and run my fingers over the tightly tucked blanket to make sure that it’s real. She never used to make the bed. Her blankets stayed in a lumpy mess even when Cadence was gone and she stayed in my bedroom. The only time it looked like this was on Tuesdays and Saturdays after my cleaning service went through her room. I stare down at the bed, my stomach hollowing.

This is different than I thought it would be. This is a pain of my own making. Because I’m a masochist, I force myself to open her closet door, and it feels just like I thought it would. All the color is gone—those bright dresses and high heels and that sparkling jewelry tree. It’s fitting, because all the color in my life left with her.

My spirits lift a little when I walk into Cadence’s room and find it mostly as it was before, but the feeling is short-lived. The sight of her clothes still folded in her tiny dresser only confirms that this wasn’t a childish act on Lauren’s part. She didn’t disappear without a trace to punish me. This isn’t something she’ll take back after she cools down. I’ll still be a father to Cadence, like Lauren promised.

I just won’t have Lauren.

God, I need a drink.

After downing three glasses of whiskey, I pick up my phone and call her, but I already know what to expect. It rings five times in a row before going to voicemail, and I have to hang up the moment her voice comes in. I’m unable to bear the sweet sound of it. I try to check her phone location, because I’m too miserable to listen to my conscience, and I find her name removed from my contact list.

After downing another glass, I decide I need a nap. I make my sluggish way to my bedroom, wishing I could sleep for the next month, that I could shut my brain off from the misery and wake up when it’s already over. But it won’t be a month. It will be much longer.

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