For what was I to say?
That I was sorry? That I would never do it again? How could I be sorry when it took her tearing open her heart in front of me to see what I'd done was wrong? How could I even begin to promise never to do it again when at every chance I'd had with Abbi, I'd found my way out? Was I to try to explain myself again? It seemed there was nothing I could say that Abbi didn't already know. Like she said, the truth was simple: I chose my work, my career, my reputation, my pursuit of that elusive word, “enough”. Was I to tell her I love her? Was I to gather her hands into mine and clutch them against my chest and whisper again and again till she believed me, “I love you, I love you, I love you, Abbi Miller”?
My hand fell from the door handle. Suddenly it felt too heavy to hold up. My whole body, in fact, seemed leaden with a weight I could no longer bear. Right there in front of the door I sank down, down, down, like an anchor finally cut loose sinking to the dark, murky ocean floor.
I did love her. I loved Abbi. But if I were to utter those words aloud to her, I was certain they would ring empty; I was a bell without the clapper. What proof did I have for her that I loved her? What evidence was there that I could present before her?
If I was trying to prove to my superiors that I was worthy of a promotion, I would know just what to do. I would gather my work records. I would get letters of recommendation to sing my praises. I would outline my strengths and unique abilities in a single-page, double-spaced cover letter. I would go into the office with a tidy, tangible stack of white paper, proof, proof I was enough.
But what proof did I have for Abbi that I loved her, that I feared losing her, that I got frightened and panicked and left and don't know how to stop myself from doing that again? I had two notes and two empty motel rooms, one from nine years ago and one from today. That was my record. Those were my letters of recommendation. And it was far from enough.
As I sat there, unblinkingly staring at the woodgrain of the closed office door, I knew that beyond a shadow of a doubt—it wasn't enough. I wasn't enough.
My office phone rang, startling me out of the numb stupor I'd fallen into as if claimed by quicksand. I glanced at the phone console over my shoulder in curiosity. My world was crumbling, but there was business as usual, plodding along as it always would. I stared at the phone like a sober, recovering addict with his hands planted against the foggy windows of a bar.
I knew my salvation didn't lie in whoever was on the line or whatever they had to say or whatever they needed done or by when. I knew, like a drop of whiskey on the tongue of an alcoholic, that placing that phone to my ear would be sealing my fate as surely as signing a deal with the devil himself. I knew if I answered I'd be swept away by a current I couldn't control, a current I couldn't fight against, a current that decided where and when it would spit me out. I knew that getting off the floor and catching the call before the last ring would be falling into a trap. No, not falling into a trap. Walking straight into one, fully knowledgeable about what it was I was doing.
But I also knew it'd make me numb for a little while longer. I knew I could retreat into conference calls and long, tiresome, redundant email exchanges and meetings and negotiations and document drafts and revisions and signings, and I'd be able to push Abbi and Zara and the pain I'd caused them from my mind. I knew with my work I could strip away my emotions and see the world in logical, rational, unemotional terms—just dollar signs and more dollar signs. Like a double shot of whiskey, I could pour work down my throat till I was drowning in it.
And that seemed better than drowning in some of the last few words Abbi said to me before leaving: I don't want Zara to know what it feels like to be abandoned. Especially not by the ones she loves.
With a weariness and resignation, I pushed myself up from the floor and crossed the short distance to my desk. I sank into my office chair and stared at the still ringing phone. Then I pulled my chair in, straightened my back and shoulders, raised my chin, fixed my unblinking eyes straight ahead of me at the closed door, and answered the phone.
"This is Michael."
* * *
Well, it worked.
It worked like a goddamn charm. From the moment Abbi left my office, I refocused on my work with a zeal and determination like never before. I worked almost nonstop for the next several weeks, not even bothering to return to my penthouse to sleep. Instead, I caught an hour here or an hour there with my head resting on my folded arms atop my desk. I never let myself sleep for longer than that because if I did, she would find me in my dreams.
A new assistant was assigned to me. I didn't even bother learning her name. She brought me refills of bitter black
