Page 6 of Afternoon Delight

Meg

At five minutes to midnight Thursday night, I quit tinkering with my resignation letter and hit send.

My email to Cameron—oh yes, I sent it to him because I was that much of a passive-aggressive bitch—referenced “an unrelated opportunity that necessitates my leaving by the end of February.” That was almost three weeks of notice, two of which were the vacation time I was currently taking.

I said I would continue to work remotely until then and expressed my gratitude for the experience I had gained at PLF.

I provided a status report on my current workload, promised to tie up loose ends before I left, and offered suggestions for client reassignment.

I even mentioned I’d be open to training my replacement, if that would assist the transition.

It was the most politely worded shove-it in the history of take-this-job-ands.

Starting at seven a.m.—nine Eastern time—texts and emails began flooding in, but I had set my phone to Do Not Disturb. I rose at ten to eight and climbed into the shower after only a glance at the number of unread messages.

I felt like such a badass ignoring them. Pathetic, I know, but I hummed a smug tune as I dried off and massaged body butter into my thighs, shins, and heels.

“Mr. Peterson wants you to call,” Mom called up the stairs when I came out of the bathroom in a towel.

I looked down to see she was wearing her chenille housecoat and had helped herself to the coffee I started brewing on my way to the shower.

“He called you?”

“On the landline. Are you in trouble?” Mom looked worried.

The strangest sensation came over me, one I had felt a few times during the divorce.

At one point, Joel had insisted on keeping my grandfather’s pocket watch—even though he never wore it.

Sentiment and a sense of stewardship had told me to dig deep for a second wind of battle fury, but something else in me had dried up and blown away.

I had ceased to care that Joel was in the wrong.

I had simply wanted out, no matter what it cost.

I’d been told women lost all their fucks at forty.

I’d honestly believed that was a reference to sex, but in this moment, I understood it was broader than that.

It was about priorities and who deserved my attention.

As I contemplated what Mr. Peterson might be thinking of me or what he might say, I reached for my jar of fucks and found it empty. In fact, there was no jar.

It was disconcerting but incredibly freeing. I stood there in bare feet, hair dripping onto my shoulders, and was struck by how unafraid I felt. How light.

“I’ll call him back after I get dressed.”

But I didn’t.

I pulled on jeans and the top Mom had bought me—a light knit in pale blue that hugged my boobs and waist. White cords crisscrossed the V-neck, and the flared sleeves fell past my knuckles.

It was casual, kind of hippy-dippy, but flattering.

The color picked up the ash tones in my streaked, dirty-blonde hair.

I never wore my hair down unless I was going out for the evening, but after drying it, I left it loose, giving it a light spritz of hairspray to keep it off my face. I used minimal makeup, only doing my eyes and applying a nude balm to my lips. I looked great.

When I was ready for “work,” I skimmed through the emails and texts, replied to one from a client that seemed pressing—I was still a professional—then told HR what my hourly rate would be if they wanted to hire me on contract. It was an exorbitant amount, and I felt no guilt or shame.

I ate my half of the grapefruit Mom left out, poured my coffee into a travel mug, and walked outside to embark on my new life.

It was fucking snowing.