She lunged back into the kitchen, to the freezer, whipped the door open, grabbed a handful of ice, and slapped it to her face, muttering the whole time, “This is all on you. You want me to act again. You need me to be whole again. You need me to win. Because for you, if it doesn’t all work out in the end, then you’d have to admit that everything doesn’t happen for a fucking reason.”
“Swan . . .”
Great, Adaku was crying. Well, so was Sewanee. It took her a moment to realize it with the ice starting to drip down her cheek, but that tightness in her chest, Adaku’s blurriness, her inability to draw a full breath? That was tears. And they made her furious.
“You can’t fix this. You will not make this better. No matter how much positive-thinking horseshit you sling at me.”
Adaku stepped toward her. “Tell me what to do.”
Sewanee met her toe-to-toe and screamed, “Let me hate the world and what it’s done to me!” At Adaku’s stricken face, she spun away and sobbed, “And leave! Please!”
She was crying too hard to hear Adaku’s own sobs, her footsteps walking away. All she knew was within a minute, she heard the front door close softly. She made it to the sink just in time to throw up.
SHE DIDN’T KNOW how long she stood there at the counter, looking out at the view of the city, slowly coming back to herself. She just knew she had no idea what to do next.
She turned on the faucet and washed her torment down the drain. It nearly made her throw up again.
Tea. She should hydrate. A manageable first step.
She opened a cabinet and reached for the Tea-For-One gift from her mom.
The moment it slipped from her hands and onto the tile floor, shattering into, conservatively, a billion pieces she knew she would be finding months later, felt, in hindsight, preordained.
She continued to stand there.
What do you want to do, Swan? she thought. Should she pick up the larger pieces, at least? Should she get a broom? Should she try crying again? Should she scream her throat bloody?
In the end, she did none of those things. Instead, she left. She walked out of the kitchen. She stepped on a few pieces, their crunch having no noticeable effect. She walked into her bedroom, grabbed a duffel bag out of the closet, snatched up arbitrary pieces of clothing, and threw them inside, zipped it up, walked back into the living room, picked up her phone, ordered a ride, took one last look at the shattered pieces, and said, aloud, “I want my mom.”
AS THE CAR made its way to LAX, Sewanee sat in the back gazing out the window. She felt good about her spontaneous decision. There was even a sense of righteous relief. She wasn’t exactly sure from what, but it convinced her she was doing the right thing. This was necessary.
It was also exciting. She’d never done something like this, just gone on her phone and booked the cheapest seat on the next flight out while in the backseat of a car already heading to the airport. The destination hadn’t mattered, but when she’d texted her mom to find out where she would be for the next few days and her mother had replied, “Venice” . . . well. Maybe some things were meant to be.
Her phone dinged but she didn’t want to deal with it. “Brock” had texted now, a few times, but she hadn’t read them. What difference did it make? She was going to Italy now. But, she’d also texted Amanda to tell her she’d be unreachable for a while, to call Henry if Blah needed anything. What if this was her reply?
Sewanee looked at her phone.
Shit. Jason.
She scanned the e-mail:
Hey Sarah! Two more episodes to go, scripts attached! As these are the consummation scenes, I think they should be performed in duet, sharing lines back and forth. So I’d like to schedule a time to have you and Brock patch in to record together.
Absofuckinglutely not.
The driver had pulled up to the curb and was getting out to retrieve her bag. She quickly typed:
Not available. Ask Nick.
She sent it, turned off her phone, got out, thanked the driver, grabbed her bag, and walked into the terminal.
Next stop, Venice. For real this time.
Part 5
Character is destiny.
–Heraclitus
Pick a flaw, any flaw. Clock it at the beginning. Let it stalk the character in the middle. Then it pounces. The ensuing moment of fight or flight. You’ve done your job. Don’t overcomplicate this.
–June French in Cosmopolitan
Chapter Fourteen
“The Retreat”
THE FIRST THING SEWANEE SAW WHEN SHE WALKED INTO THE PENSIONE her mother had arranged for her was Marilyn and Stu sitting in two overstuffed club chairs in the lobby. In unison, they beamed and raised their hands in the air as if she’d scored a touchdown.