Chapter 2The Day I Stopped Apologizing

The next morning, I showed up at the office like any other Tuesday.

Nobody knew what had happened yesterday, and nobody needed to.

I booted up my workstation. The exterior paneling study for the downtown mixed-use complex needed one final pass.

Greg pulled up a rolling chair next to my desk, nursing a dented travel mug of black coffee. "Well? Did you sign the papers?"

"No."

"Wait, what? What happened?"

"Something came up on her end. We postponed."

Greg opened his mouth, caught the flat look in my eyes, and closed it again. He knew Lauren. And he knew this wasn't the first time.

He patted my shoulder once, heavy and awkward. "Take care of yourself, man."

At ten o'clock, I knocked on Crawford's frosted glass door.

"Crawford? Got a second? I need to put in my notice."

Crawford’s coffee mug nearly slipped from his hand. "You what?"

"I'm resigning. An agency in Miami reached out with an offer. I decided to take it."

Crawford set his mug down with a sharp clatter and leaned back into his leather chair, squinting at me. "Miami? Who is it?"

"Vanguard Studio."

"Vanguard? They just landed two massive public bids along Biscayne Bay... Adam, are you sure about this?"

"Completely."

"How much time do you need for handover?"

"I'll finish this final elevation pass today. The remaining construction sets are organized and labeled; Greg can run point from here. A week is plenty."

Crawford watched me for several seconds, his gaze sharp and calculating. "Is this about Lauren?"

I didn't answer.

He let out a long, ragged exhale. "I told that recruiter you weren't interested three months ago because you told me you were staying put for her. I covered for you. Now you tell me you're walking... Fine. I won't stand in your way."

I dipped my head slightly. "Thank you, Crawford. For everything."

When I stepped out of his office, my palms were slick with sweat.

It wasn't panic. It was something foreign and weightless.

Like a thick rubber band that had been stretched past its breaking point for eight straight years had finally snapped.

It didn't even sting.

It just went loose.

At lunch, Greg slid into the booth across from me at the corner diner downstairs. "Word travels fast. You’re really leaving?"

"Yeah."

"Does Lauren know?"

"No."

"When are you going to tell her?"

I picked up a hot French fry, dipped it into ketchup, and chewed slowly. "I'm not."

Greg’s fork stopped halfway to his Reuben sandwich. "Adam... come on. You’re just going to ghost an eight-year relationship?"

"Forty-eight hours," I said, glancing at my watch. Twenty-two hours had elapsed since she hung up on me. "That’s her rule. She’s sitting in her apartment right now, counting down the minutes, waiting for me to knock on her door and apologize. I've done it every single time. Not this time."

Greg stared at me, his eyes wide. "You've changed, man."

"No," I replied quietly. "I’ve wanted to leave for years. I just finally ran out of excuses to stay."

That afternoon, I cleared my desk.

Eight years of digital archives sorted into clean, dated folders on the company server.

In my bottom drawer, I found a tin of peppermint lozenges she had tossed into my bag two winters ago. Expired. Threw it away.

On the corner of my desk sat a small, verdigris bronze elephant paperweight she had picked up during a weekend getaway to Santa Fe.

I picked it up. Held it for two seconds.

Tossed it into my cardboard box.

Then I paused. Took it out.

Set it back down on the empty laminate desk.

The cleaning crew would throw it out with the rest of the junk on Monday. Better to leave it behind.

I didn't go straight home after work.

I drove to the bank branch on North Michigan Avenue.

I slid my card into the ATM and tapped "Check Balance."

Twenty-three thousand, four hundred and twelve dollars.

One hundred and ninety-three thousand minus one hundred and seventy thousand.

I stood there in the humming fluorescent glow of the vestibule, staring at the screen.

My share of that account was roughly ninety-six thousand dollars. Pulling it back out wasn't an option; there was barely enough left to cover a couple of months of rent.

I hit "Exit" and took my card.

Whatever. Consider it the price of tuition.

Back at my rental apartment, packing took less than two hours.

When you live alone, you realize how little of the world you actually occupy.

The dress shirts hanging in the closet were folded into two suitcases. My architecture monographs and design theory texts filled three sturdy cardboard boxes.

The carton of whole milk in the fridge was nearly spoiled, so I poured it down the drain; the unopened carton of pasture-raised eggs went to the elderly lady across the hall.

The kitchen was fully stocked with cast-iron skillets and knives I had bought myself. Lauren had rarely set foot in this place anyway. She hated that it was an older brick walk-up with no elevator, complaining about the five flights of stairs every time she visited. Over eight years, she hadn't come over more than a dozen times, and even then, she never stayed longer than fifteen minutes before finding a reason to leave.

I zipped the last suitcase and stood in the center of the quiet living room.

The bathroom faucet had a tiny, persistent drip. I grabbed a wrench from the utility closet and tightened the valve until it fell dead silent.

Old habits die hard.

My phone vibrated on the granite kitchen counter.

Lauren had posted a new story on Instagram.

A photo of two tall iced oat-milk lattes on a reclaimed wood table inside Chase’s photography studio.

Her caption: "Celebrating clean slates and fresh starts. Day one begins now!"

In the comments, Chase had left a smiley face.

Lauren had replied: "My treat, always. Don't you dare try to pay me back!"

I looked at the screen for three seconds, then locked the phone.

No like. No screenshot.

I set it on the nightstand and switched off the lamp.

Tomorrow would be the second half of the countdown.

Twenty-six hours left.