We could’ve gone together to fix whatever they were missing. Not that anything would’ve been missing. Well, I didn’t send the tag lines I had because I was still working on them.

I send a text to Devon.

C. Solis: Everything was uploaded to the cloud and emailed last Thursday. Including the drafts for the Bendik and Carson accounts. What were you missing?

He doesn’t answer me back. I hug myself, wondering what happened and why is it that my job is on the line?

Staring at the bed, I wonder why Miller couldn’t even leave a note. Something that tells me we’re okay. I hate feeling disappointed about his absence and the lack of communication.

Why couldn’t he just tell me he had to leave?

He had his computer with him. I could’ve connected to my desktop and shown him my work. Maybe finished the entire presentation during the night.

But it’s done and the tightness of my lungs is making it harder for me to breathe.

What am I supposed to do now?

I call the airline to see if I can change my flight. There are no flights leaving for Denver until tomorrow and that one is already full. They suggest I go on standby if I want to or call another airline. The two other airlines have first-class seats, but I can’t pay fifteen hundred dollars for a one-way trip.

My only option is to wait until Thursday. Because of course, every forsaken airline has plenty of seats to fly out to Denver on Thursday.

As I’m trying not to drown in self-pity because that’s not me, I head to the beach. And what do you know? Miller reserved a cabana for the Archers. Worst of all, since we’re staying in the presidential suite, I swear everyone knows us.

Every employee treats Mrs. Archer like a queen. Lucky bitch. Claire Solis isn’t feeling so great on the inside. She’s alone on her birthday, being called by a name that isn’t even hers, and smiling while they ask, where is Mr. Archer?

Well, the asshole left me behind. He sent my best friends on a cruise, and here I am, enjoying a nice couple’s massage by myself. Why did Miller book a massage by the ocean where people are walking by every three seconds?

Well, now I sound bitter.

“Mrs. Archer, I just want to remind you that dinner will be served at five, per your husband’s request.”

I look at my left hand. There’s no ring. And then the empty massage table beside me. There’s no Mr. Archer and I’m alone.

Single—abandoned.

Get a clue, I have nothing to celebrate.

“And your scuba diving instructor will be waiting by your cabana.”

I push myself up and ask, “What scuba instructor?”