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This whole thing with Luka brought back the last relationship I’d had. Bill #2. I tried to push Bill #2 out of my mind forever, but sometimes the memories crept back. Like the day he left me.
***
One Seattle Saturday morning, after grabbing a quick cup of coffee and a blueberry muffin, I had stuck my head back in the bedroom to say goodbye to Bill. It was a few minutes before seven and he was still in the bathroom. I rapped on the door. “Hey, I’m taking off,” I called through the door.
“See ya,” he called back.
But I didn’t see him. We didn’t work near each other anymore, since I’d left coding to be HR director, so I didn’t know anything was amiss until Bill #1 stuck his head in my office and asked, “Where’s Bill?”
I looked up from paperwork, getting ready for a meeting. “What do you mean?” I answered.
“I mean, he’s not here. His car’s not in the parking lot, he’s not at his desk. No one’s seen him today. Did he say anything to you about not coming in?”
Not working on a Saturday, or Sunday for that matter, constituted a cardinal sin. Bill #1’s obsession with the company was why we were doing so incredibly well in the tech industry, which was still in its infancy. He expected everyone to work seven days a week but tolerated shorter Sundays.
“No, I thought he was leaving right behind me at seven,” I said, a knot forming in my stomach.
Bill #1 looked displeased and left my office.
I hoped nothing bad had happened. Did my Bill get in an accident on the way to work? He had been complaining about being tired lately. Did he get sick? But he would call in if he wasn’t feeling well.
I picked up the phone on my desk and called the house. It went to the answering machine. “Where are you?” I said to the machine. “Bill’s asking why you’re not here. Are you all right? Give me a call.”
I hung up before the machine cut me off. I stewed the rest of the afternoon, although I attended my meeting and worked all day, sometimes busy enough that I forgot about him, almost. Finally at six I called it a day and left for home.
His car wasn’t in the garage. Worry took hold. Where in the heck was he? The house was dead quiet. The alarm was set, so I punched in the code. I looked out the front windows. The waters of Lake Sammamish looked dull, except for the tiny white splashes from the perpetual Seattle rain. The drops were large enough to clatter on the metal roof.
“Bill,” I called, walking from room to room. The house seemed eerily quiet, except for the machine gun hammering of the rain. I walked into the ensuite bathroom, the last place I had talked to him, albeit through a closed door. His side of the counter looked barren. No electric toothbrush plugged into the outlet on his side of the long counter. I opened the medicine cabinet, also on his side. The shelves were empty, occupied only by the occasional stray hair and a little dust.
I stumbled out of the bathroom and pulled back the door to his side of the closet. Empty. Not a single shirt hanging. All his slacks, gone. Even his suitcase, normally tucked away in the corner until he needed it for travel, was missing.
I started to feel nauseous, and for one dizzy moment, thought I might vomit into the vacuous closet. I reached out to the wall on the side and took a deep breath.
I lurched out of the bedroom. The answering machine flashed at me—a malicious red blinking eye. I walked to it on rubbery legs and pushed the button. The only message was the one I had left, asking where he was, why wasn’t he at work?
That’s when I noticed a wine glass next to a bottle of wine in my stainless-steel wine chiller, complete with ice, mostly melted. On the kitchen counter next to the chiller sat an envelope with my name on it.
What the hell? I picked up the envelope with shaking hand, even though by now I had a good idea what might be inside. The bastard had left me wine, thinking I would need a drink after reading his letter? Well, he’d probably been right about that. I opened the envelope and unfolded the plain white paper. The message was typed, not handwritten. Not even a cursive signature graced the end of the letter.
My dearest Olivia,
My sincere apologies. I don’t know how to do this. You know I love you, but I can’t cope. I’m not proud of myself, but your—what shall we call it—situation? Freaks me out. Please forgive me. Best wishes for as happy a life as you can make for yourself, given your circumstances.
Love always,
Bill
At first the letter sucked the breath out of me. He had left me. And done it in such a cowardly way. He hadn’t even had the guts to tell me face to face. I mean, it wasn’t as if we weren’t going to see each other at work. I read and reread the letter. Then I poured myself a glass of cold, white wine and went to the living room, sinking into my big, cozy chair that faced the lake. I wanted to cry, I really did, but I was too pissed. We had been together for over two years, and this is how he ended it.
In the end, I drank most of the bottle of wine. It helped numb the sickening emotions that ebbed and flowed inside me. Somewhere toward the end of the bottle a few tears slid down my cheeks. I had really liked him. He was whip smart. He used to be funny, until the bad thing happened. I guess somewhere inside I had seen the first, loose threads of our relationship unraveling.
I fell into bed a few hours later and slept a dreamless sleep. The only consolation, when I woke up at six a.m. with a pounding headache and a queasy stomach, was that for the first time in years, snoring hadn’t rattled the bed. I had slept in blissful silence.
