If he were less cowardly, he’d email her and say they can’t communicate anymore. “Sorry, Nancy, I was using you to avoid dealing with the absurdity of my life. I’m IMing you from the Palmer-Boone corporate apartment. Does that give you any idea of how well it went over when Laurie saw the messages we’d been sending each other on Facebook? Yeah, exactly. Lead fucking balloon.” He thought when he mentioned the apartment to Laurie she’d laugh and talk him out of it. But she didn’t. Instead, she helped him pack his suitcase—he assumed he’d use his favorite Ed Hardy carry-on bag she’d given him as a joke birthday present (“An Ed Hardy suitcase? Really?” she said), but she told him she was using it for her birthing bag. Even when he was standing at the front door, he was ready for her to grab the suitcase from his hand and say, “Enough already. We both know you’re not going anywhere.” But she was silent. The first night he was sure she’d call.
