working late as usual, and I could be in and out of here before you got home. I was planning to email you.”
“Email me!” I gaped at him. “To end a three-year relationship?”
“Or call you,” he added quickly. “I hadn’t quite decided yet. But to be fair, Meg, our relationship ended a long time ago. We were both just too stubborn—or too busy—to deal with a breakup.”
I closed my eyes, fighting tears.
“The last few months only made it clearer to me,” he said. “We didn’t love each other enough to fight for it.”
Deep down, I knew he was right, but even though he’d said we, what I heard was I didn’t love you enough to fight for you.
Maybe it was unfair to twist his words like that, but I couldn’t help it. Especially since all my relationships tended to end like this—they just fizzled out. No real drama. No huge scene. No fight.
“How come I’m so bad at this?” I heard myself asking.
“Bad at what?”
“Relationships. I mean, I’m thirty-three already. Why can’t I get it right?”
“Do you want the truth?”
“I don’t know. Do I?”
“It’s because you never put your relationships first. You don’t even put yourself first. It’s always your job. And I’m not saying that to attack you—I’m just stating the facts.”
I would not miss Brooks just stating the facts.
Not that he was wrong. I’d always been somewhat of a workaholic. A perfectionist. Even as a kid, I did all the extra credit problems. Volunteered to lead the group projects. Read ahead in the book. I stayed up late making sure my homework assignments were perfectly correct and I obsessed over my penmanship. It made me feel good. Teachers praised me. My parents bragged about my grades and self-motivation. I won prizes and scholarships and essay contests.
Working hard and being successful was what I did best—and hadn’t it gotten me what I had now? A law degree? A great job? A name for myself in a fiercely competitive field?
Of course it had, and I was proud of everything I had accomplished.
But I was beginning to see that it had come with a price.
* * *
As soon as Brooks was gone, I traded my work suit and sensible pumps for sweats and fuzzy socks, threw my hair in a messy knot on the top of my head, and headed straight for the pantry, where I kept an emergency stash of booze and Twinkies. Then I made myself a margarita, plunked myself on the living floor, and proceeded to consume a stupid amount of sugar, salt, fat, and alcohol while binge-watching Law & Order and trying not to think about the sad state of my personal life.
But two drinks and four Twinkies in, I thought I might need an intervention.
Desperate for someone to tell me I wasn’t going to die sad and alone, surrounded by Hostess wrappers, I picked up my cell and tried calling my sister April. I had four sisters, but April was the one I’d been closest to growing up. My sister Chloe was actually nearest to me in age (only fourteen months younger), but she’d been such a handful as a kid, April had often ended up in charge of me. Even though she was only two years older, she was always the caretaker.
Plus, now that Frannie, the baby of the family at twenty-seven, was getting married, and Chloe was recently engaged, that left April and me as the last two single Sawyer sisters. (The oldest, Sylvia, had gotten married right after college.)
We hadn’t talked about it much, but I felt like April might be the only one who’d understand me right now. Or at least help me make some sense of what I was feeling—otherwise I saw myself consuming a potentially lethal amount of golden sponge cake and fluffy sweet cream filling tonight.
When April didn’t answer my call, I texted my friend Noah, a sheriff’s deputy in my hometown and one of my closest friends from high school. We hadn’t spoken in a couple months, and I hadn’t actually seen him in a few years, but that’s how it was with us. We’d go for long periods of time without talking, but once one of us bothered to pick up the phone or get on a plane, it was like no time had gone by.
Plus, he’d saved my life once. I figured he was kind of responsible for me after that.