Page 95 of Take My Name

I can hardly breathe. My chest’s tight and my head’s dizzy.

Rubbing my sweaty palms down the T-shirt, my vision goes fuzzy.

I’m having a panic attack.

The reality of his words hit me hard. Because even though he understands why I had to leave and focus on what I wanted, his perspective makes a lot of sense too.

I don’t want to look back on my life and regret making work my only priority. If it was all about proving to myself I could stand on my own two feet, I’ve done that. I’ve been hustling to create my own agency, and I did it.

So why am I still working nonstop instead of enjoying the freedom that comes with being my own boss? Although I have an assistant, I could hire more help or take on less work.

Do I use work as an excuse to avoid not being happy in other aspects of my life?

Is it possible Warren’s right about filling a void?

Before coming here, I would’ve said absolutely not.

But when’s the last time I went out with friends where we didn’t talk about our jobs? Or make friends who weren’t in the publishing industry? They’re more like acquaintances if I’m being honest. They only know me in a professional sense, not my personal life.

Would Hayes work less if I asked him to? Go to the theater, travel the world, make friends in other countries.

I honestly don’t know that he would.

But Warren wouldn’t even leave Tennessee for me.

Finally moving my feet, I walk to the kitchen and find the divorce papers I’ve been asking him to sign for years. And there on the last page is his signature.

This is what I wanted and why I came here in the first place.

He…let me off the hook. We had two more dates planned and now it’s…over.

I should be relieved.

But then why does it feel like he ripped out my heart and stomped on it?

I put them back in the manilla folder, grab the rest of my things, change out of his T-shirt, and do the walk of shame back to my parents’ house.

If my mother’s upset with me for not coming home last night, she doesn’t show it. Neither does my father.

They’re at the breakfast table like every morning, and when I wave to them, neither acknowledges that I’m still wearing my dress from last night. And most definitely look wrecked. Mascara rubbed off. Hair ina messy bun.

Tear-stained cheeks.

“Freshen up and come eat, honey,” is all my mother says when I go toward the staircase. “We have some things we need to discuss with you about the weddin’.”

My voice is too hoarse to speak, so I nod, then make my way to my bedroom. I’m waiting for the reality of what happened to hit me. That he’s signed the papers and it’s possible I’ll never see him again. We fought with each other, but he didn’tfightfor me the way he said he would. Didn’t beg me to reconsider his perspective, which I thought about the entire drive home.

Because I do see it and am now questioning everything I thought I knew.

If Hayes and I were madly in love, we’d want to spend more quality time together instead of only coexisting in the same space. We’re basically coworkers, not lovers.

Warren and I could never keep our hands off each other. Physical touch was our love language. That and quality time.

When I’d come home during college breaks and holidays, we were inseparable. He rarely worked late unless there was an emergency, and if there was, he always insisted on making it up to me. Even for those few months after I graduated and we lived in a trailer behind his parents’ house, we ate dinner together every night and spent the rest of the evening glued to each other’s sides. Sometimes we’d go out, other times we’d stay in, but it didn’t matter because as long as I was with him, I was happy.

And maybe that scared me.

Maybe I thought I had to run off and work toward a goal so I wasn’t dependent on yet another person. My parents made sure I was dependent on them, never allowed me to get a job, and myhusband offered me the same privilege. He wanted to take care of me. But I didn’t want to feel trapped.