A hundred images flash through my head in less than two seconds. It seems like I relive every minute with him, like some kind of time-lapsed film in extreme fast-forward. But I manage to see, hear, smell, and taste it all like it’s happening in real time.
I bring my arms up and wrap my hands around the back of his neck, my fingertips sinking into his hair. He sighs. My breath catches in my chest. We fit together like two halves of a raindrop that split when it hit a piece of grime on a dirty window. Two halves that will forever fit perfectly together but will never rejoin.
“God, how is this happening?” I sob, mortified when I realize I’ve said it out loud.
He pulls away and looks down at me. “Say the word, and it ends differently. I don’t want to leave you here.” His lips move in. They’re a millimeter from mine when he says, “Remember when you trusted me implicitly?” and I imagine them kissing Leslie.
“Stop,” I say, pulling away, breaking the spell. I duck around his body and under one of his arms. “I’m sorry, but I can’t.”
“Why not?” he demands, more than a little impatiently. “It’s obvious you’re not happy the way things are now.”
Instead of answering him, I flee his office, barely stopping at my cubicle for my purse and coat.
“That’s right, Libby. Run!” he calls after me. “Run away from the biggest cock-up of your life!”
I’m not sure if he means he was my biggest mistake or if rejecting him was. Either way, he doesn’t have to tell me twice to run. I was there before he even suggested it. I don’t want to wait for the elevator, so I crash through the stairwell door and begin a twenty-four flight descent into the parking garage.
After ten flights in these heels, though, I’m done. I emerge on the fifth floor, crying and out-of-breath. I limp to the elevators and press the down arrow. The doors immediately open, so I stumble into the empty car, frantically pressing the button for the parking garage level where my car is waiting. It’s as if I think the harder and faster I press the button, the faster my life will proceed, until it’s just a blur that I don’t really have to experience.
When the elevator spits me out in the concrete garage, I hobble as fast as I can to the row where my car is. I’m simultaneously relieved and annoyed when I see that Jude’s not already there waiting for me, but that an identical navy blue car is parked next to mine.
“Stalker,” I mutter, double-checking the license plate and the presence of Bobblehead Ryne in the car that I get into. It doesn’t matter that my keyless entry wouldn’t work on Jude’s car. I don’t want any chance of another accidental switcheroo, especially tonight. I’m almost free of him.
I’ve just twisted the key in the ignition when my cell phone chimes to alert me to a text message. The masochist in me can’t resist reading it. All it says is, Please don’t.
Scrunching my eyes closed, I toss the phone into the passenger-side floorboard. I suck the cold, stale car air in through my teeth, open
25
Once again, I become one with my bed, keeping time in relation to whatever I imagine Jude is doing at the moment. At four o’clock on Friday, I sit up in bed and mentally follow his progress: He’s eating his cake right now. Locking his office door for the last time. Returning his keys to Wanda. Saying his final goodbyes to Lisa, Zoe… and her. Maybe he’s even wondering where I am. He’s getting into his car, driving through the parking garage for the last time, taking a second to get his bearings before he can pull onto the street (he always gets turned around under there). Driving even more cautiously than usual (if that’s possible) to his empty apartment, because it’s snowing. Eating Spaghetti-O’s straight from the can (don’t even get me started listing the ways that’s disgusting) in the middle of all the boxes piled around him. Showering, standing under the hot stream until the water goes cold. Setting his cell phone alarm for an early wake-up call to go to the airport. Going to bed on a mattress in the middle of his bedroom floor.
In actuality, my imaginary Jude reality show only lasts about twenty minutes. He’s probably not even finished eating his chocolate cake (would I let Lisa order anything but his favorite?) when I jump from the bed, suddenly compelled to do one last thing before he leaves forever.
I dig my laptop out from under some dirty laundry on my couch, open it, and boot it up. Quickly, I open the letter I wrote to Jude and that I was going to give to him on The Anniversary. But the break-up was still too raw then, and I never found a good time to give it to him. If I hurry, I can run it over to his place before he even gets home to eat his revolting dinner. I’d email it to him if I knew he’d have access to email during his move. But I want him to read it before he leaves Chicago. It’s suddenly of utmost importance to me.
Before hitting print, I proofread it (sorry; unbreakable habit).
Dear Jude,
I know you don’t understand many things about me (there are things I don’t understand, either), and you will have to resign yourself to the fact that you never will (as I have), but I promised you months ago that I would tell you things that would go a long way to shedding
