I waited. I worked. I worried.
I went home at close to seven and still there was nothing from Nick.
I made myself a big salad, ate it all alone in my huge kitchen, and close to nine, texted, Are you okay?
I eventually went to bed.
It was the first night in three weeks I’d hit my bed without first hitting Nick’s so Nick could hit me.
I tossed and turned all night, my phone by my bed.
Dawn came.
And from Nick, there was nothing.
* * * * *
8:36 p.m. – Three Days Later
I knocked at Nick’s door.
The Jag was there. The huge windows that, on the stairs, in his recessed entryway or even from the street I could not see into, were lit, the soft glow from the bedroom, a brighter glow from the living room.
I heard nothing.
He didn’t answer the door.
I looked to the large signature bows of the black Valentino platform, peep-toe pumps I wore.
Those bows, so simple, still a thing of beauty.
At least there was some beauty in the world I could own.
I looked to Nick’s door.
He was in there.
But we were over.
He was the smart one.
The strong one.
Thank God one of us was.
I walked down the steps with my head held high. We were friendly. He’d stopped communicating. Now I was just an acquaintance he’d fucked who was checking on him.
I had no proof but still, I knew he was fine.
I could move on.
Yes, I would move on.
Nothing to look forward to, not anymore.
But that was okay. Naturally, I’d keep breathing.
It was habit.