Page 92 of London, Can You Wait?

Alex’s leg picked up speed. “Come on, Lucy, give me a break. All you’ve done lately is harp at me for being sad. I may have ended it, but it still hurts.” She avoided eye contact. “At least Freddie’s been understanding.”

“Yeah, ’cause Freds wants you two back together.”

“Maybe Freddie’s right. I keep having doubts…” Alex lowered her voice. “…asking myself, Did I do the right thing? Living with Mark’s clothes, his bathroom stuff, the Vespa…it’s a daily reminder of what I’ve lost.”

“Well, then you won’t mind when I chuck that United shirt in the bin when we get back.”

“You might as well toss me in with it.”

“Don’t tempt me.” Lucy gestured with her fork as she talked. “In an hour or so, all those reminders will be out of your flat for good, and I’m changing my Netflix password, so you’ll stop with the Friends marathon. It’s not helping.”

Alex poked at a small roast potato. “But the absence of his stuff is a reminder, too.”

“For fuck’s sake, Lex, you’re doing my head in. The cheater had to move today, okay? Once the film finishes mid-Feb, Freddie said he’s straight into rehearsals for some play.”

“What play? Where’s he doing it?”

“I don’t care. You shouldn’t either. You were doing so well two weeks ago. Now you’re…regressing, yeah, that’s the word.” Lucy picked up the menu, giving the desserts a once-over. “Oh, I forgot to tell you—I called to cancel your Spring Break Florida trip, but Mark had already done it. At least he’s taken responsibility for something.”

“Fuck, I miss him.”

Lucy’s phone buzzed on the table. “It’s Freds. If he’s telling the truth, they’ve just left the flat.”

Alex jolted to her feet sending her chair squealing across the floor. “I’m going back. Now.”

• • •

Tearing off her coat, Alex’s eyes landed on the black chair inside the flat. “His keys…”

Lucy closed the door. “What about them?”

“They’re not here. He always leaves them right here. Maybe he’s not done—maybe he’s coming back.” Without stopping for breath, she raced into the bedroom, her keychain—the one that matched Mark’s—clasped within her grip.

“Lex…” Lucy called out even though Alex was around the corner, out of sight. “Don’t. His Vespa’s gone…”

Heart pounding, Alex whipped open the closet at breakneck speed. Half of it—Mark’s half—was bare. She ran to his drawers, heaving them open two at a time, their hollow clunk a punch to Alex’s stomach. She spun around, eyes wild and roving, the room dissolving into a streaky blur. His record collection, his signed football, his dog-eared novels—all gone, off to live someplace else…someplace without her.

“Babe, don’t do this.”

Chucks thumping across the hardwood, Alex ignored Lucy and strode through the living room to the bathroom, her eyes scrambling over the vanity, through the medicine cabinet, over the edge of the tub: Mark’s hair products, razor, and toothbrush that had lived alongside her lotions, potions, and bottles…all taken. With a shaky hand, she shoved her bangs off her forehead, creased in despair.

The fridge…the fridge would tell her. Smothered with photos and loving Post-Its—that’s where she needed to look. She careened from the bathroom, all hope pinned to that under-the-counter appliance.

The surface of the fridge was like a baseball bat to the knees. Alex reached for the kitchen counter, steading herself. Mark hadn’t taken anything. She stared at the memories left behind, deemed dispensable by the man she had hoped to spend the rest of her life with.

He hadn’t left anything, either. “No note, no…nothing? Doesn’t two years mean anything to him?” Alex squeezed the keychain in her hand, the engraving on the silver rectangle branding its significance into her palm and scarring her heart.

Lucy placed a hand on her friend’s shoulder. “Actors are like nomads, moving from job to job, Lex. He’s used to leaving people behind.”

Tears slipped down Alex’s cheeks and landed on her sweatshirt—Mark’s sweatshirt—her new reality seeping into her heart as quickly as the tears soaked into the cotton top. Not only had Mark taken all his belongings, he had also snatched away her hope, her breath, her heart.

Looking across the counter, Lucy spied a propped-up bubble envelope with ‘Alex’ scrawled across it.

“Lex, what’s that?” She grabbed the medium-sized package for her friend.

The handwriting with its looping A and sweeping X was as familiar as Alex’s own. She fought back tears, taking a hopeful breath.

Ripping open the parcel, her shaky hand met the waxy dust jacket of a hardcover book. The ache in her chest squeezed tighter. It was the signed autobiography of Manchester United’s most celebrated manager, Sir Alex Ferguson…her birthday gift to Mark—the one she had hurled at his head in Dublin. A page fell open, revealing a piece of hotel notepaper.