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My once-in-a-while stress cigarette has turned into a full pack a day habit. I feel like shit, my hands smell awful, and I hate myself. Somehow I can’t seem to stop.
I’m standing on the rooftop deck of the Financial District skyscraper that houses the Generations Bank offices.
It’s technically illegal to smoke up here, but I’m tucked away in the building’s unofficial smoking section, a corner that gets little foot traffic and has no security cameras. I’d rather risk the fine than fight the elevator crowds that just cancel out any stress relief I get from the smoking break.
I’m in the middle of answering e-mails, but I can’t focus. I’ve had to add rooftops to the list of things Rhett has ruined for me (which includes cars, lakes, espresso martinis, and falling in love). Every time I come up here I can only think sullenly of our simultaneously smoking hot and freezing cold first kiss on the rooftop of the Sandor. Thoughts of everything that came after only make me more depressed.
I’m not sure if it’s masochistic or pathetic to keep coming up here regardless. Or maybe I just don’t want to forget about him as much as I keep telling myself I do.
Anna’s nocturnal visit last week has only gotten me to be a bit nicer to Katie. Beyond that, the thought of any meaningful change seems like an uphill battle somehow more exhausting and stressful than the workload I’m already under. I could quit and work for another bank, but what would even be the point? More time for me to sit alone at home?
No, better to smoke and work. This is my purpose, after all. My destiny. Some of us have to be worker drones. We can’t all—
“Oh, excuse me,” a woman’s voice says behind me.
I start, guiltily, from where I’m standing at the railing, cigarette clenched in a tightening grip. Too late to play innocent; the air around me is too cloudy.
But then I turn and all thoughts of getting busted vanish from my mind when I recognize the severe haircut, the expensive, stylish clothing.
“Marie,” I say, suddenly guilty for a whole other reason. We don’t typically meet face-to-face, but every time we have to I have a hard time meeting her eye.
“Hello, Liz,” Marie says. She’s holding a manila envelope, and she gestures toward my pack with her free hand. “Looks like you’ve got your own this time.”
“And I’m happy to return the favor,” I reply, offering her one. It’s the least I can do.
She takes it and my offered light. “How are my investments coming along?”
I mindlessly rattle off some statistics. It’s not hard: I know my accounts better than I know my friends these days. Marie nods in approval, but after a bit I can tell she’s not really listening.
I really shouldn’t ask.
I need to mind my own business.
But despite my best efforts to numb myself, my heart still breaks at the obvious sadness on her face.
“Is everything okay?” I ask her.
Marie stares out over the city for a moment before saying, quietly, “I saw Bill today. I haven’t seen him since the island.”
“Oh,” I say. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s not your fault,” Marie says.
I cringe internally and hope it doesn’t show on my face.
I’ve debated whether or not to tell Marie the truth, usually while drunk in my office at two in the morning (can’t believe I ever judged Sloane for that), and I’ve always decided against it. The reason varies. Marie would be furious. I could lose my job. And ultimately, what difference would it even make? Too much time has passed for a happy ending.
But beneath the excuses an evil voice nudges at me. Is it just because I don’t want anyone else to be happy? Sometimes the thought fills me with revulsion, other times I delight in it. Anna might not know this, but there’s something comforting about being a bitch. The hard protective shell around my heart feels safe.
Now is not one of those times however. In the face of Marie’s barely held back tears I feel terrible.
She doesn’t seem to notice my internal confliction. “His lawyer’s office is in this building,” she continues. “We were supposed to sign the divorce papers there.”
“Is that what those are?” I ask, nodding at the manila envelope.
She grimaces. “I should have just signed them right on the table. But I… I couldn’t do it with him watching.”
“I’ll bet he made a show of signing his,” I say bitterly.
