The ceiling fan grinds above me. A lavender light shoots through my blinds. Beeping assaults my ears. I punch my alarm off. It’s 7:30.
I’m still wearing my dusty-red pants and black T-shirt from the night before. When I pee, my urine spreads like bright orange dye in the bowl.
My stomach rumbles. I’m ravenous. With trembling hands, I fry two eggs in olive oil and toast some bread. I chew with my mouth open; I gulp my water—all the bad eating habits Mom trained me to avoid. I have no extra energy for formalities. On my way back to bed, my gaze settles on the vase of wilting zinnias. I set my alarm for 8:20 and fall back to sleep.
What seems like seconds later, the alarm blares again.
* * *
At the office, the news team gathers for the morning meeting. I dry heave when a videographer walks past with a microwaved burrito. Justin sniffs me out. “Late night?” he asks. “I have some Ensure if you want it.”
“Oh, no—thanks, though,” I say, almost gagging at the idea of drinking anything other than water. Besides me and Justin, there are four people at the meeting: Meghan, the six-o’clock producer; the technical director; and two production assistants. We are waiting on Angela.
Meghan looks up from her phone. “Isn’t that for old people?”
“I drink it before I lift. It’s also good if you don’t have time to eat or something.”
“Oh.” Meghan returns to thumbing a message. One of the production assistants yawns. Justin’s knee bounces at a furious pace as he reviews his notes. I pass the time hoping for a good burp to settle my stomach.
My phone vibrates: four missed calls from Trip and a text. “Are you okay?!?!?”
Before there is time to process, Angela arrives, shaking a breakfast drink. “What have you got?”
Justin pitches a story about the shortage of skilled workers in the restaurant industry. He adds that he plans to follow up on the murder case we ran at the top of all the newscasts yesterday. Meghan wants to give an update on the Isle of Palms residents working to save baby sea turtles from disorientation caused by renters leaving the lights of their beach houses on all night. She suggests the story could tie in nicely with the Sullivan’s Island controversy over the resurgence of the coyote population.
“Simons?”
My stomach somersaults. “I think it would be interesting to interview the independent store owners, to see where they fit in with all this new development.” Perhaps a story on the district could give Lowcountry Bikes some more business and help my karma.
She shakes her drink. “You mean on upper King?”
I nod, because she’s right, but also because I’m afraid to speak; I might throw up. My phone vibrates again. It’s Trip. I need to call off the wedding, to salvage what little integrity I have left. But I can’t do it here, not while I’m at work. Why does he keep calling?
“Okay, let’s start with Justin at the top of the six to cover the murder. We’ll do some national news and then segue into the restaurant bit. Meghan, give what you have about sea turtles to our resident tree hugger.” Angela winks at me. “Run the King Street story at the seven, too.” We wait for more instruction, but there is none. Angela waves us away, and we scatter like roaches.
I sit at my desk to begin the long slog of research and writing. My work phone rings. So shrill. “WCCC News 14.”
“There you are!” It’s Trip, and he sounds more annoyed than relieved. “I’ve been trying to reach you since last night. I heard this awful noise, like maybe you were hurt or . . .”
“What? I can’t talk right now.”
“You called me, Simons, at eleven fifty-four last night. I heard all this noise and was practically screaming through the phone to get your attention . . .”
“Trip, I am so confused. I’m at work . . .”
“I know. I called your work phone.”
“Yeah. Oh.” Oh. The details of last night swim into focus. I did call him last night. I must have left the phone on while I was puking my guts out on the threshold of a bike store. Oh my God, I am such a mess. “Trip, I was sick, but I’m okay now. I need to talk to you, though. Can we talk later?”
“Simons, what’s going on? I deserve to know.”
I’d rather wait a day, giving me time to talk to Laudie, to hear her story, get her advice. But Trip is right. He deserves to know. Now. I tell him I’ll call him back from my cell once I’m outside the office and at a spot where I can have privacy.
“Simons.” It’s Angela, who’s surprisingly agile when it comes to popping up out of nowhere. This time, she arrives with a swoosh, still seated in her rolling office chair. She plants her feet inches away from my desk. “There’s more to the Sonny Boykin story, I just know it. He was leaving an apartment complex. Judges don’t live in apartments.” She chews her thumbnail, raw and wet from anxious gnawing. Still, she wears a smile on her face.
“I’ve got to take a personal call outside.”
“Okay, well, hurry up.”
Past the break room, on the opposite side of the building’s parking lot, there is a small clearing next to a retention pond. My only company are the geese trolling the fresh-cut grass, shitting as they go. I find a spot in the shade of the lone willow tree and phone Trip. It’s not where or how I’d planned to make the call, but it will have to do.
“Trip, I want to call off the wedding.” There, I said it. No backpedaling. No excuses. I wait for him to speak. Nothing. My phone shows we’re still connected. “Trip, I said—”
“I heard you.” A long silence is followed by the creak of an office chair. “You’d better be sure. You can’t unsay this.”
“Trip, I’m sorry.” What else is there to say? I am sorry. I am sorry I am not in love with him anymore. I am sorry I have this aching need to be apart from him. I am sorry I have a wandering eye. And I am so sorry I kissed Harry.
“So, what does this mean? Are we single?”
“We could take a break for a while. Like, six months or something.”
“Ha. A break. From our relationship? Like a gym membership?”
“I’m not trying to be funny. I’m just trying to figure this out.”
“Let me get this straight. You want to break up for a while and try to get back together in six months.”
“Then we could have a talk. See where we are.”
“Okay, well, wow.” After another long pause, he says, “I’m not sure what else to say right now. I need some time to process this.”
“Okay,” I say, thankful that he’s the one ending the call.
“Goodbye, Simons,” he says, sounding a bit more ominous than I’d like.
And then, it’s over. We’re separated. I tilt my head up to the sky and spread my arms, opening my chest to the universe to cast off guilt and receive the thrilling gift of sudden freedom. I did it. I answer to no one. I’m untethered. Unburdened. Unleashed into this wide world. Yet there’s a heaviness—in the atmosphere, in my heart—that lingers.