At least the man himself wasn’t anywhere nearby. Since she’d helped him make the arrangements, she knew he’d planned to check out from his Madison hotel Sunday morning to head to the airport and board his flight to LAX.
It was only Saturday, and after spending another night at Carah’s house, she’d left bright and early to drive to his home and remove all traces of their brief life together. So even if he got sickof socializing and left early—and odds were good he’d do just that—he still wouldn’t make it back before she was gone, no matter whether it took her a half hour or two hours to pack.
Besides, no way he’d come if he knew she was there. And he did, because she’d texted him to ask for permission to enter his house, even though she’d still had her keys and remotes and everything else that allowed her access to his life.
Fine, he’d texted back yesterday evening, an hour or so before the alumni event.
One word. Nothing more. Because he was Peter, and because he was pissed and hurt.
Oddly, though, he’d written her again close to midnight and used a somewhat wider selection of his vocabulary.Text me when you get there and before you leave, please.
Thepleasewas weirdly polite. And why did he care when she came and went? Maybe it was an alarm company thing? Or he’d revoked her permission to enter the stupid community gates, and now he’d need to make an exception?
Or maybe he just wanted to be very, very sure she was gone before he came home. If so, fair enough. She wanted the same thing. So she’d obediently texted him upon arrival without expecting to hear back, because what else was there to say, really?
But as she gathered up all her elastics, clips, and other hair supplies from both bathrooms, her phone dinged again, and gods above, did he want her to fucking record her packing process so he could ensure she hadn’t stolen anything, or—
Oh. It was Ingrid, her agent. Not Peter.
After reading the text, Maria obediently FaceTimed Ingrid so they could discuss the movie script her agent had received the evening before. The project had a great director attached, a woman Maria had wanted to work with for a while, and an award-winningcinematographer interested too. The story was a suspenseful woman-on-the-run movie with a romantic arc—the main character’s computer-genius best friend–turned–more—and absolutely no reference to her size.
Again and again, she’d used her moments in the media spotlight to advocate for more films starring fat people that had nothing to do with fatness. Superhero movies starring fat people. Erotic movies starring fat people. Romantic comedies starring fat people. Period films starring fat people. Gangster movies starring fat people. Spy movies starring fat people.
Suspense movies starring fat people.
Like this one.
Apparently, the director planned to film in Iceland, a setting Maria found absolutely breathtaking. The project would require three months of shooting, more or less. And if her agent’s opinion could be trusted—and it could—the story might as well have been written with Maria in mind. So unless the script itself failed to impress her, she wanted that part.
Which would require three months. Three months of shooting. In Iceland.
And she’d have wanted the part even if she and Peter were still together.
She dropped abruptly onto the oversized, ridiculously comfortable couch in his great room and told her agent she’d call back later in the day. Because...
Skit. There was no use in denying it.
She’d fucked up. Not entirely. Not in the essentials, not in the decision she’d made to walk away, but her own blue cupboard was far from pristine at the moment.
There were nuances to her position, and in her panic and grief and hurt, she’d considered and explained exactly zero of them toPeter. Three years spent mostly apart would still destroy her, so his insistence on accepting thatFTIrole still meant the end of their relationship.
Three months, though?
It would hurt. But she could handle that length of separation, if either one of them found an amazing role they truly wanted to accept, rather than just a role that paid well.
Fy fan. No, she was still fucking up.
If Peter wanted to take a role simply because it paid well, and he needed the security of a huge financial cushion and an expensive house in a gated community after what had happened to his mom, after what his father had done to him, who was she to judge?
They both had pasts. Because of her past, she had needs other people might not, and she’d drawn a boundary to protect them and herself as well. Because of his past, he had his own idiosyncratic requirements for happiness, and he should be able to fulfill those without criticism too. As long as meeting those needs didn’t mean hers went unmet.
Her therapist had once said Maria’s tendency toward all-or-nothing relationships would come back to—as Americans liked to say—bite her in the ass one day.
Well, no.
Because Kerstin was a therapist, she’d tilted her head before noting with complete neutrality, “When it comes to sex and romance, you only seem open to relationships that fall into one of two very distinct categories: absolutely everything you ever wanted or casual sex. I’d like to hear more about how that choice is serving you.”
Sometimes, she kind of wanted to slap Kerstin.