This Stop, I'm Getting Off Alone

He cupped my face and pressed a few light kisses to it.

"Bertha said you got jealous easily, and I didn't believe her. Turns out it's true."

Will laughed again, and the laugh slid like a needle into a chest that already ached.

Then his phone buzzed.

He glanced at it and shook his head, helpless.

"Bertha didn't bring her hand warmers. I'll go take her some."

He bent over my suitcase, took out a whole pack of hand warmers, and went next door.

I looked down at the two warmers left alone in the case.

For no reason at all, I felt cold.

I remembered the time I forgot my pajamas in the shower.

They'd been right there next to Will, and he couldn't be bothered to get up and pass them in to me.

But it was more than ten steps from this suite to Bertha's room.

And it never once occurred to him to say no.

Will didn't come back for two hours.

He seemed about to explain something, then saw I was already lying with my back to him.

When I opened my eyes the next morning,

Will was already dressed,

fixing Bertha's collar — she'd slipped in at some point without my noticing.

"Zip it all the way up, or you'll get cold."

Bertha stuck out her tongue.

Watching them, I sat up.

"You two go enjoy yourselves today. I'll stay behind."

I hadn't planned on going up the mountain today anyway.

Watching how easily they moved around each other, I figured I'd only be in the way.

"June, you're up? What did you just say?"

Bertha blinked, then patted Will's arm.

"June was just calling you. Say something."

Will's mouth curved.

"You think she's like you, needing to be coaxed out of bed?"

He turned to me.

"I was going to let you sleep in, then forgot to wake you. Hurry and get washed up, we're about to head out."

He bent and gathered the things.

"Bertha, let's go down first. We'll wait for June at the bottom."

I got up and looked down through the window.

Bertha walked in front, turning back now and then to say something with a laugh.

And Will, behind her, answered every time, not the way he was with me, where there was rarely anything to talk about.

With her, Will always had so much to say.

I don't like video games, and I don't like extreme sports.

The cave diving, the skiing, the skydiving he loved, none of it was anything I could do with him.

Yet in these ten years with him, I never once felt there was anything wrong with us.

People don't have to be alike to belong together.

But watching Will's face now,

I knew he was happy today — a hundred times happier than the dull weekends with me, sipping whatever mess of a cocktail I'd thrown together.

I opened our chat.

He'd just asked when I was coming down.

I wanted to type "let's break up," but my fingers wouldn't move.

So I sent a voice message instead.

"You all go ahead. I'm not coming."

"Will, we don't fit. Let's just break up."

First he sent back a single "okay."

Then a voice message of his own.

"Okay, hurry up and catch up. We'll wait for you up front."

Will had gotten lazy again.

Two messages, and he'd read half of one transcript,

and hadn't even glanced at the other.

He probably figured the second one was just me telling them to wait.

He'd always done this. Always.

I set down my phone and sat in silence for a long while.

The room phone rang. I picked it up.

"Yes, I booked a driver. To the station."

The swing between day and night temperatures had left me with a low fever.

While I waited for the driver, my head started to go heavy and dim.

By the time my mind cleared, there were already more missed calls on my phone than I could count.