I paused a second. Then I went on. “I’m sorry I’ve been such a mess. These last weeks have been so strange and so hard … but I want you to know that, for me, you were the best thing about them. All the times you rescued me, all the times you looked after me. You were a genuine force for good in my life. I’m grateful. I’ll always be grateful—no matter what happened or where you are or how it ended. So. Thank you. Thank you for being a friend to me when I really, really needed one. And thank you for the most phenomenal kiss in the history of all time. And I think I’m in love with you, by the way—or at least I was. Before you ghosted me. But don’t worry. I’ll get over it.”
Wait—
Did I just say “in love with you”？ Out loud?
I started trying to hit End, but my finger was so panicked it just kept uselessly slapping the phone. “Shit! Shit! Shit!” I said, still recording, as I failed to hang up.
Finally, mid-flail, I added, “Okay, then. Best wishes!”
And with that—on attempt number four thousand—I finally landed the pad of my finger on End. And we were done.
The silence that followed was brutal, as those final seconds of that message echoed around in my head: “I think I’m in love with you, by the way.” Then a gasp—and “Shit! Shit! Shit!” Then, of all things: “Best wishes!”
Best wishes? Best wishes?
That’s how I ended the most humiliating voicemail in human history? Best frigging wishes?
But then I had a comforting thought:
It was fine. It really was.
He’d never listen to it, anyway.
Twenty-Nine
I WENT TO bed that night feeling at peace with my choices.
But I woke up the next day feeling nice and angry.
Had I really just called the guy who ghosted me—and thanked him?
Thanked him?
Where exactly was my self-respect?
You don’t thank people who put your heart in a meat grinder. You don’t thank people who abandon you. You don’t thank people who stare at you cold as ice and then turn away when you beg them for help.
That was my plan? To absolve him of all responsibility and then pleasantly move on?
He had dumped me and left town for no apparent reason without even an explanation—and he’d acted like I was the problem.
Not cool.
And I thought it was a good idea to leave him a grateful voicemail for that?
Yes. Apparently I did.
Which made me even angrier. At both of us.
Because how was I supposed to get over it if I was consumed with rage?
Or maybe getting consumed with rage was part of getting over it …
Fine then. No more moping, no more weeping, no more pining for the future I’d lost hold of.
It was time to be okay. For real.
The anger was very healing—burning through me with a purifying fire.
Sue approved.
When she returned from her kidnapping elopement a few days later, we gave the Joe debacle one last, long hearty evening of processing, decided it was a lucky near miss for me, made a list of guys Witt could set me up with, and spent the rest of the night brainstorming what the hell, now, I should do with my career.
Sue voted for “textile designer” because she thought I had a way with color. But we also considered interior designer, knitting-store owner, and boutique hotelier in the Swiss Alps.
The other big news was that Sue’s parents were throwing her an elopement party.
“They’re not mad that you got married without them?”
“Nope,” Sue said, like that question had been bananas. “They love him. My mom knitted him a sweater with a heart on it.”
Apparently, Sue’s mom thought the kidnapping elopement was very romantic. And she thought Witt was a sweet boy and a good provider. And she was a huge fan of Canada.
Turned out, Mrs. Kim and Sue had been planning a little welcome-home wedding celebration during Sue’s entire cross-Canada train ride—texting pictures of flower arrangements and table settings back and forth—and her mom already had everything worked out for the Friday night after the newlyweds returned.
“Wow,” I said. “Between me and your mom, you barely had time to enjoy your kidnapping.”
“I managed,” Sue said.
“Witt’s just lucky to get any time with you at all,” I said.
Sue agreed.
“By the way,” she said. “My mom wants to know if we can borrow your rooftop.”
“It’s not my rooftop,” I said. “It’s her rooftop.”
“So it’s okay?”