ODESSA

I lock up my temporary office and head outside. Beckham never returned from his afternoon meeting, but I spent the last half of the day setting up social media accounts. Tomorrow I’ll be working with Devin to brainstorm ideas for the new website. I have a few I need to run by Beckham and Dane, but by the end of next week, we should have our concept nailed down and a test site to explore.

By the time I turn the corner on the sidewalk, Beckham is barreling toward the building, head tucked and on his phone. He doesn’t see me at first, locked in a heated conversation, but once he does, he mutters something and ends his call.

“Cutting out early?” he asks.

“Early? It’s five. On a Friday,” I say. “I’ll be back first thing Monday morning. We’ll go over everything I did today, and we can discuss the website.”

We’re blocking the sidewalk like a couple of assholes, throngs of five o’clockers rushing past, bumping us with shoulders and bags. I’m not sure what else to say to him, so I give him a quick wave and tighten the strap of my bag over my shoulder before heading home.

I peek around my shoulder when I get around the next block, making sure he isn’t chasing after me again or following me home like some crazy stalker.

He’s nowhere to be seen.

I’ll think about being nicer to him tomorrow.

* * *

My key sticks in the lock to my apartment. Jeremiah used to call the landlord about it every other week, but all she’d do was spray WD-40 into it and call it good. He was going to fix it himself. Two weeks ago. The day before he left.

I twist the key so hard the metal leaves indentations in my fingers, but the lock eventually pops and my door swings open.

“Jeremiah.”

I drop my bag on the kitchen counter and stand frozen. He’s sitting in his favorite chair, dressed in jeans and a t-shirt. His spray tan is faded, and his hair appears to be product-free.

“Hey, Sam.” He moves toward me with careful steps, a stark contrast from the days when he’d lunge toward me, slip an arm around my waist and lift me up. I was weightless then, lucky in love.

“What are you doing here?”

“Came to check on you. Haven’t heard from you in a while. Was getting worried.” His hands grip the arms of his chair as he pushes himself into a standing position. “Had a few days off from shooting.”

It’s not the answer I expected. Was hoping for something along the lines of, “I came back because I realized how crazy I am for doubting us.”

“How are you holding up?” His clear blue eyes squint. “You’re all dressed up. You start a new job?”

“I’m doing some consulting.”

“Good, good. You’re staying busy.”

Our small talk is painful and trite. I’d give anything to dive right into one of our old heart to hearts where nothing’s off the table and brutal honesty is the name of the game.

Who knew we could lose all that in just two weeks?

“How are you doing?” I ask, praying for a hint that these last fourteen days have been just as brutal for him as they’ve been for me.

“Doin’ real good, Sam.”

My heart breaks with one little word: good.

“That’s nice.” I force a smile, inhaling a lungful of tension and uneasiness. The floor beneath my feet wobbles, though I’m sure it’s my imagination. I need to sit.

It’s easier to be strong when he’s not around, when I can funnel my anger into grit and determination. But seeing him now, standing within arm’s reach and untouchable? Sensing that we’re no better off now than we were two weeks ago?

It changes things.

“Sam, you okay?” Jeremiah rushes toward me, taking my arm and leading me to the sofa we’d spent many Friday nights binge watching The Walking Dead and eating massive quantities of Chinese takeout after intense weeks of blogging.

I collapse into the cushy pillows. He takes the spot next to me, still holding my arm.

Jeremiah’s baby blues used to comfort me. Absent is their cozy familiarity. He stares at me like he has no idea what he should do when he should know. That man knows me better than anyone.

“I don’t like this.” I draw my legs in, leaning away. “This gray area. Not knowing what we’re doing.”

“I don’t like it either.”

Then end it.

“How much longer do you need?” I barely have the strength to meet his gaze. “Have you done any thinking about us in these last two weeks or have you been busy working this whole time?”

It’s not right for him to leave me hanging. If he only came here to check on me and not to discuss what’s going on between us, I’ll be livid.

“Both,” he says. “And I don’t know how much longer I’ll need. I don’t want to give you the wrong answer.”

“Either you still love me and still want to spend your life with me,” I say. “Or you don’t. It’s pretty simple.”

“It’s not simple at all, Samantha.” After all these years, I still love the way he drawls my name out, his accent dragging each syllable a millisecond too long. “A year ago? Six months ago? Yeah. I thought I knew exactly what I wanted.”

“Which was?”

“You,” he says. “You as my wife. A couple kids. A house in the suburbs. Maybe Connecticut. A simple life.”

“What changed?”

“What do you mean what changed? Everything changed.” His hand pulls from my arm, resting on his knee as he stares ahead at the coffee table. “They’re saying I’m going to be huge, Samantha. They’re talking huge endorsement contracts, restaurants, a cookware line. They’re calling me the next Rachael Ray or Paula Deen, only the attractive, guy version.”

He laughs. The old Jeremiah never would’ve called himself attractive despite the fact that he inarguably was.

“This is all so surreal,” he says. “There’s so much going on my head is spinning, and I don’t have the time to dedicate to you – to our relationship. It’s not fair to you.”

“Fine,” I say. “You want to take over the world. Great. I don’t understand why I can’t be a part of that? I’ve been by your side all along. We always said we were going to take over the world together.”

“I want that, Samantha.” His voice breaks. “I can’t imagine going through all of that without you. But on the other hand, I know I wouldn’t make our marriage a priority, especially while my empire’s getting off the ground. How could I do that to you?”

He turns to me, taking my hand and squeezing it. My heart clings to his. I want to kiss him, lay in his arms. Convince him that we’ll be fine no matter what.

Instead, I freeze. Because now I don’t know.

“Plenty of celebrity chefs have spouses,” I say.

“They’re not us,” he says. “We can’t do it just because they do.”

Jeremiah lifts the top of my hand to his mouth, before pulling me into his arms. My cheek falls slowly against his chest, breathing in his familiar, spicy scent.

“I still love you, Jer,” I sigh, wrapping my arms under his and listening to the steady thrum of his heart. “I love you for who you are. Not because you’re suddenly somebody. No one else knows you like I do.”

“I love you too, Sam.” He squeezes me. “Everything’ll work out.”

His words give me little hope and comfort.

“I miss you. Bed gets cold at night,” I say.

“Are you eating?” He glances down at me and back up, his fingers running against my rib cage. “You’re smaller.”

“Stop.” I laugh.

“Let me cook you dinner tonight.”

“Aren’t you tired of cooking? How many episodes did you shoot this week?”

He stands up, and for a second it feels like we’re headed in the right direction. I can’t help but grin.

“The cool thing about filming a show like that is I’ve got a whole team of interns and assistants who make the food ahead of time and prep everything and clean up, so my part is mostly pretending and keeping the show fun.”

Jeremiah is a natural born entertainer. His mother is the head of the theater department at his hometown high school, and his father is a radio disc jockey for a major radio station in Atlanta. Commanding audiences, in person or over the airwaves, is in his DNA.

I wrap myself in a blanket and get cozy as I observe him picking through what little ingredients remain in the fridge and cupboards. Haven’t gone to the store in forever, and when I do go it’s cereal, milk, and frozen dinners for me.

“I’m going to have to run down to the market,” he says, running his hand through his messy blond hair. “But I’ll make you a nice dinner, Sam. We’ll hang out tonight like old times, okay?”

I nod and give him a closed-mouth smile, silently mourning the old times. They’re gone. Never coming back.

All we have is ambiguity and a distance between us that grows further each day.