With a twinge of panic I rifled through my duffel bag for my cell phone. Maybe I could find a barber nearby. And a mall for some fresh clothes. But when I plugged in my Blackberry, which had gone dead who knows how long ago, a flurry of messages from work made the phone practically vibrate out of my hand. I sank to the dirty motel carpet and scrolled through countless texts, emails, and unlistened-to voicemails.
I'd been pushing off work like a teenager who thought cleaning his room meant shoving everything underneath a rug and calling it a day. But everything I'd neglected in lieu of Abbi and Zara came crawling back out. And the pile of it was monstrous.
I was needed back at work. That much was obvious. Things were held up because of me, and that was my fault. Yes, I had to attend to this. Right away. The idea of returning immediately to work numbed the scars of my heart like a bag of frozen peas. My breathing returned to normal and the panic I felt at having to stand in judgement before my father dissipated. I held my Blackberry like a safety blanket and it felt…familiar.
I glanced over my shoulder at the adjoining door to Zara and Abbi's room. There was no need to ruin the rest of their long weekend over this. I could go and do my work and they could continue on the road trip. I nodded. That would be the best for everyone. I would just call a cab to go to the nearest airport and catch a flight back to Denver. I'd be back in the office by noon and I'd finish things up so that I could come over and see Abbi and Zara when they returned late that night.
I would see my father another time. When I was less busy with work. When the merger was completed. When I had my next promotion. When I had my suits with me. When I bought a new suit. When I bought a new Rolex. When I bought a new car. When I bought a nice, big house. When I had enough.
When I was enough.
I was at the small, wobbling motel desk and pulling at rickety drawers before I knew it. I slapped a thin notepad onto the scratched surface and popped the lid off a nearly dry blue pen. My words appeared on the page as if written by a hand that wasn't mine:
Work emergency came up. Catching a flight back to Denver. Have fun and see you when you're back. –M
I stared at the handwriting that looked so foreign. But it was mine. It was the way it had always been. It was probably the way it would always be.
I quickly packed up my things as I started to hear movement stirring in the adjoining room. I called a cab and reassured myself it was best to leave without telling Abbi. She'd only insist we all leave together. I couldn't cut Zara’s holiday short. So I was doing this for her. Right?
The cab honked outside and I opened the door before stopping. On second thought I hurried back, pulled out a credit card and tossed it on the note. Then the motel door was closing and I was sliding into the cab and the road was rolling away beneath me.
This wasn't like last time, I told myself as the high cactus flashed by, their prickly limbs all seemingly pointing back toward Abbi, back toward Zara. This wasn't like last time.
This was different.
By the time I arrived at the small regional airport, I managed to actually believed it.
Abbi
On Tuesday morning I came into work with dry, determined eyes and an empty cardboard box tucked underneath my arm. I walked straight to my desk and started carefully and calmly gathering my things. At the noise of my opening and closing drawers, Michael emerged from his office. The smell of his cologne made my blood boil. I struggled to keep control of myself as I placed a framed picture of Zara into the box.
"Hey, you," Michael said cheerfully as he leaned casually against the door frame of his office. "I tried calling you last night to see when you two were getting back. I thought I might drop by to say hi and see how the rest of the trip went."
I squeezed my bundle of pens and pencils so tightly that my knuckles shone white. I forced my eyes down at the cardboard box and worked faster.
"Maybe my international plan ran out or something," Michael continued, pulling his Blackberry out of his back pocket to scroll through his calls. "I guess I'll have to look into that and see—"
"There's nothing wrong with your phone," I said coldly.
"What's that?"
I laid my palms flat against my desk and tried to steady my breathing that was threatening to spiral out of control.
"I saw all your calls, Michael," I stated through clenched teeth.
I felt Michael hesitating as his eyes scanned over the box and half my things inside of it on the desk.
"I guess you got in really late then," he said slowly.
I didn't tell him that we got in around three in the afternoon after driving straight home. I didn't tell him I sat at the kitchen counter with a bottle of wine and watched my cell phone vibrate across the table every time he called
