Because three weeks ago, Tommy had added his trip to Costa Rica to our shared calendar. At first, I thought it was an invitation. I mean, sure, we hadn’t communicated since he left in June, but my heart had damn near broken free of my chest when I saw it. I immediately took a screenshot of the event and sent him a playful, “are you trying to tell me something?” text. He responded within seconds with an apology. Said he was drunk. That he’d put it on our shared calendar by accident, and wow. That had hurt more than it fucking should have.

But still hopeful and glad to be texting him again, I had tried to keep the communication flowing.

Me: Costa Rica, huh?

Tommy: Yeah. Jared told me that

I needed to take a vacation

because I was showing

all the textbook signs of burnout.

He was right.

So I decided to get the fuck

out of here for a while.

Me: How long is a while though?

No return flight?

Tommy: I don’t know yet. I took a month,

but maybe it’ll end up being more than that.

Me: What about Son of Martin?

And all of the work you’ve done on

your equitable housing initiatives?

Tommy: I recently hired three architects.

One of them, Lauryn, is more connected than

I am when it comes to the dealing with our

equitable housing projects so

she’ll be handling it while I’m gone.

The Cobb & Frost job is almost done.

I don’t need to be here for it run smoothly.

Besides, it’s a five-hour flight.

I can always fly home if there’s an emergency.

This was all stuff I knew. I’d watched his company grow via social media over the last six months. Watched him hire those three architects, one of whom was a long-legged, dark-skinned beauty named Lauryn, who seemed everpresent in both his personal and business feeds lately. I saw them leave the Craftsman bungalow they’d worked out of for the last four years and move into a larger, more corporate office. I’d watched it all happen. I’d even liked a few of those posts and praised him a bit. Now I was beginning to realize that this was probably growth he’d planned just so he could take this extended trip. To relocate to Costa Rica and never come back.

Then, like a fool, I’d told him that I missed him. His answering text was full of so much venom that my fingertips had stung from it.

Tommy: What the fuck do you expect

me to do with that, Darcy?

He’d apologized. I apologized, and then he apologized some more, but three weeks later, those words were still dogging my thoughts.

What the fuck do you expect me to do with that, Darcy?

What, indeed.