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“ERIKA!” I called out again, my voice desperate and strained.
The water seemed to swallow her, and just as my hope began to wane, something coiled around my neck. I whirled around to find Erika’s laughing face inches from mine. She had been toying with me, her eyes gleaming with mischief.
“You bitch,” I growled.
All at once she was gone and I wheeled around to see her swimming away.
“ERIKA, COME BACK!” I yelled, frustration and relief mingling in my voice as she swam around the back of the boat.
She didn’t pause, instead swimming away. My only hope was the ladder at the boat’s stern. I swam to it, pulled myself up, and found her on the small landing, wringing out her wet hair. She refused to meet my gaze.
“I’m sorry,” I said, my breath ragged. “I didn’t mean to overreact.”
“That was totally unnecessary,” Erika snapped, her voice sharp. “You called me a bitch.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, feeling the weight of my words. “But when I couldn’t find you, I thought something might’ve happened. Was it really funny to disappear like that?”
“I swam under the boat,” she said defensively. “I didn’t even hear you.”
“It’s dangerous, Erika,” I insisted, trying to calm the rush of emotion. “You could’ve been hurt. I’d have had no idea where you were.”
“Well, I’m fine. I think this day is over,” she said curtly, turning her back and heading up the stairs to the main deck.
I stood there, drenched and frustrated, feeling a gnawing sense of helplessness. The sun still shone brightly, but our day had taken a sour turn. I knew I needed to bridge the gap between us before the day ended in deeper discord.
For a week, I was trapped in a relentless purgatory, unable to escape the mess I had created. The day of our boating trip played on repeat in my mind, especially the way Erika refused to even look at me after we got back to the deck. Our day was ruined, and she demanded I take her back to dry land. I tried to reason with her, holding off as long as I could until I saw the tears welling up in her eyes. At that point, I couldn’t say no.
The moment we docked, she disembarked before I could even secure the boat. By the time I reached the parking lot, she was gone. No sign of her, just an empty space where I hoped to see her waiting. I assumed she took an Uber or a cab back to my place, but when I got home, Erika wasn’t there, nor was her suitcase. Panic set in. I spent days texting and calling her, each attempt met with silence.
Now, a week later, I was barely hanging on. I couldn’t eat, I couldn’t think—my life was a haze of missed opportunities and unspoken apologies. Even work, something I’d always been able to rely on, felt distant and unimportant.
“What’s your problem?” Michael asked, snapping me out of my daze. We were having lunch at Leaves in Greenwich Village, a quaint eatery that Michael loved. It was sweltering outside, but he insisted on sitting in the patio’s greenery, soaking up the sun. I wiped my face with a napkin, the sweat mixing with the sting of my hangover, and sipped at my seltzer and lime.
“Nothing, everything,” I muttered, feeling the weight of the past week press down on me.
“You haven’t mentioned Erika. Are you two having problems?” Michael asked, his tone laced with concern.
“I’m an ass,” I admitted, signaling the waiter for something stronger. For days, I’d been drowning my sorrows in whiskey, the burn of the alcohol offering a temporary escape. This morning’s hangover had been brutal—I’d downed three aspirin with my coffee just to get through showing a multimillion-dollar loft to one of Mrs. Ducane’s obnoxiously wealthy friends. Normally, the prospect of a fat commission would’ve excited me, but today, I could barely muster the energy to care.
“What exactly did you do?” Michael pressed, his eyes narrowing.
I explained what happened on the boat, reliving each moment with a fresh wave of regret.
He hummed, leaning back in his chair. “You are an ass. You called her a bitch?”
“I did,” I confessed, scanning the restaurant for the waiter. Relief washed over me when I saw him approaching with the whiskey on the rocks I’d ordered. I shucked off my gray suit coat and rolled up the sleeves of my dress shirt as the drink was placed in front of me.
“You can’t fault her for anything,” Michael commented, his voice measured. “She didn’t mean to hurt you.”
“All I could think about was you,” I said, the words coming out before I could stop them. “I thought I lost her.”
“You didn’t, and you should’ve explained that to her. But I can’t condone you calling her names,” Michael said, his tone firm.
“I sent her flowers, called her more times than I can count. I even went by her place, but the concierge threatened to throw me out. I sat outside her building until the doorman told me to leave,” I said, frustration lacing my voice.
Michael sighed, running a hand through his hair. “I could ask Morgan to talk to her.”
I scowled, taking a slug of my drink. “Really? She’s getting married. Why would she have anything to do with you?”
