Chapter 3

The next morning, Michael stood at the door, holding the neatly packed container of blueberry chia seed pudding.

"I was thinking," he said, not looking at me, "we should talk to your parents next week. Finalize the wedding details."

"No need," I said. "My parents are visiting my aunt in California. They won't be back for a while."

His phone buzzed. Jessica, impatient. He hurried out.

Friday was my last day. I packed my personal items from my desk, said my goodbyes.

As I walked out of the building, Michael grabbed my arm. He dragged me to his car and drove us to a Michelin three-star restaurant.

He ordered for both of us. A bone-in ribeye for him, a delicate sea bass for me.

I picked at my food, mostly scrolling through Zillow on my phone.

He snatched the phone from my hand. "Can you at least pretend to be present?"

He glanced at the screen. My wallpaper, once a smiling photo of us in Central Park, was now a picture of Buster, my Golden Retriever.

"I need the restroom," I said, standing up.

When I returned, the restaurant lights dimmed. A waiter pushed a cart with a birthday cake and a bouquet of roses... towards the table next to ours.

A text message pinged on my phone. Verizon. [Happy Birthday, Sarah! Enjoy your special day.]

Outside the restaurant, I saw Jessica on a swing set in the small park across the street. Michael was pushing her, higher and higher. They were laughing.

She "accidentally" tumbled off, right into his arms. They held each other for a long moment before noticing me.

Michael scowled. "You ruined the moment."

I walked towards the city's observation deck, the one overlooking the Hudson, a place where people supposedly made wishes.

They followed.

Michael and Jessica stepped onto the last available glass-bottomed viewing platform just as I reached it.

I turned and walked away.

I went back to the apartment Michael and I shared. I packed my suitcases.

On the console table in the entryway, I left the apartment keys and a single note: "We're done."

Then I went to my parents' house.

I ignored Michael's fifty-seven missed calls and the barrage of texts.

They started with: [What the hell does that note mean?]

Progressed to: [Are you seriously playing games over one forgotten birthday? Grow up.]

And ended with: [You have one hour to get your ass back here, or don't bother coming back at all.]

I blocked his number.