Wrong Number: My Sweetest Goodbye

Eliza POV:

I was at a brewery with Jolene, my best friend and the sharpest family law attorney in the city. My phone buzzed on the table. A text from Drake.

"Where are you?"

I ignored it.

Jolene raised an eyebrow. "You' re not going to answer that? That' s new. He usually has to be on his deathbed to text you first."

"He' ll get mad," I said, taking a sip of my beer. The words felt strange, like a line from a play I no longer had a part in. The fear was gone. For years, the thought of Drake' s anger had been a cold knot in my stomach. Now, it was just a fact, as neutral as the weather.

"Let him," Jolene said, her smile sharp. "It' s about time."

I stayed out late, later than I had in years. I talked and laughed with Jolene and Julian, the brewery owner and an old friend from college, until my cheeks hurt. It felt like breathing again after holding my breath for a long, long time.

When I got home, the apartment was dark except for a sliver of light from under the kitchen door. Drake was standing at the counter, a glass of water in his hand, looking like he' d been waiting up.

He didn' t ask where I' d been. I didn' t offer an explanation. We passed each other in the hallway like two ships in the night, strangers in our own home.

I showered and slid into my side of the bed, the cool sheets a welcome relief. I had just closed my eyes when the mattress dipped beside me. An arm snaked around my waist, pulling me against a hard chest. His lips were at my neck.

It was a familiar routine. It was that time of the month, the small window of opportunity where he would perform his husbandly duties in our silent, ongoing quest for a child we never discussed. He was never affectionate, never tender. It was a transaction.

But tonight, my body rebelled. As he tried to kiss me, my hands flew up, pushing hard against his chest. It was a reflexive, visceral rejection.

The motion was so abrupt it startled both of us. He froze, then switched on the bedside lamp. The harsh light flooded the room. He stared down at me, his eyes narrowed in disbelief.

"What the hell is your problem?" he demanded.

He glanced at the calendar on my nightstand, the one where I tracked my cycle. "It' s the right time," he said, as if that explained everything. As if my body were a machine that should operate on his schedule.

I rolled over, turning my back to him. "I' m tired, Drake."

The words were the same ones I' d used countless times before, a flimsy shield against his unwanted advances. But the tone was different. Before, it was a plea. Tonight, it was a dismissal.

He stared at my back for a long moment. Then, with a curse, he threw back the covers and stormed out of the room. I heard the guest room door slam shut down the hall.

The old Eliza would have lain awake all night, her heart aching, wondering how to fix this, how to win back his favor.

The new Eliza closed her eyes.

And for the first time in years, I slept through the entire night, a deep, dreamless, and profoundly peaceful sleep.

The next morning, I woke up feeling refreshed and clear-headed. He had made breakfast-a peace offering of burnt toast and cold eggs-before leaving for work. I scraped it into the bin.

At the office, I was more focused and productive than I had been in months. I finalized a design proposal that had been languishing on my desk, my mind sharp and unclouded by domestic anxieties.

During my lunch break, I walked into my boss' s office.

"Jolene is a great friend," I said, "but for this, I think it' s better to have someone who isn' t so close to the situation. Do you still have the contact information for that divorce lawyer you used?"