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I know she’s right and I hate it.

“The doctor said I can fly now. Do you want me to come out there?”

“No. I’ll be fine.”

“I know you will, but it’s okay to lower your guard now and again. Trust your heart, even though it’s hurting, and know a love worth having is worth fighting for. It’ll all fall into place soon.”

“I hope so.”

“Don’t hide away from the hurt this time. You have three amazing friends in your corner. They’d want to know what’s going on.”

“I don’t want to bother them.” I pull at a loose thread on the duvet.

“Talia.” She sighs. “Have you learned nothing? You’re not the burden you were raised to believe you are. They’re your people; let them in.”

The moment we hang up, a text comes through.

Tate: Just landed at JFK.

Tate: I love you.

Talia: I love you too.

Tate: Keep my side of the bed warm. We’ll talk soon.

All too quickly, the tears return. I blanket myself in the duvet again, wishing I could sleep away our time apart.

Eyes puffy, throat like sandpaper, I wake from the worst night’s sleep.

Sixteen hours have passed since he left.

I’d prepared for the next year to be tough as we waited out the remainder of Tate’s contract, but now I have to sit with the unknown. No idea when I’ll see him next.

The call with Annie partially reassured me. I know he isn’t abandoning me, and I have to stay strong for us, to remain present and not panic while he’s away. That’s only possible if I open up to my friends this time.

Talia: First, I’m okay. Second, I’m not sending this text so you all drop what you’re doing and come to my rescue. Yesterday, Tate found the divorce papers. I fucked up. I don’t know when he’ll be home or what’s going through his head, but I promise not to shut down like I did last time. We’ll be fine.

We had to be.

I send the text and immediately grimace at my mechanical tone. Too late to do anything, because within seconds, the three of them have read it.

It only took me twenty-eight years to act like an emotionally stable adult. Progress.

I drag myself into the bathroom, turn on the shower, and step under the scalding water. As the room fills with steam, words appear in the condensation on the mirror.

I love you. A farewell message written by his hand.

If I don’t laugh, I’ll cry.

Never mind, I do both simultaneously, dropping to my ass in the shower and sobbing until there are no tears left in my body. There’s no point making myself presentable, so I pull on one of his creased T-shirts and boy shorts before heading downstairs.

I hesitate in the doorway of my office, staring at the drawer hanging off its hinges awkwardly, the papers sitting where he left them. I should’ve burned them.

No. I’m going to burn them.

I spin, stomping into the kitchen and searching through the cupboards for what I need, then I grab the papers and march over to the fireplace. They catch immediately when I bring them to the lit lighter, the orange flames devouring the words and letters to ash. They flutter into the hearth just as the doorbell rings. Then the smoke alarm shrieks as dark-gray clouds fill the room.

“Fuck!” I flap my hands in the air, wafting at what’s left of the papers as they blacken and curl.