Wrong Number: My Sweetest Goodbye

Eliza POV: My phone rang as I was leaving the office. It was Drake. I let it go to voicemail, but he called back immediately. I answered, bracing myself. "Did you see the photo?" he asked, his voice tight with a forced casualness. A group chat with his college friends, which I was still inexplicably a part of, had lit up an hour ago. A picture of Drake and Kandace at a wedding reception over the weekend. They were on the dance floor, pressed close together, her head resting on his chest. They looked like the happy couple. "Why would I need to see it?" I asked, my voice calm. "I already know." "Are you angry?" he asked, a hopeful note in his voice. He wanted a fight. A fight was familiar territory. "Why would I be angry?" I countered. There was a long pause on the other end of the line. My indifference was derailing him. "Listen," he said, his tone shifting to commanding. "I' m having dinner with some clients tonight at The Oak Room. Be ready at seven. I' ll pick you up." He hung up before I could refuse. At seven sharp, his Tesla pulled up to my office building. When I got in, Kandace was already in the passenger seat. She turned to me, a sickly sweet smile on her face. "Eliza! Drake said you wouldn' t mind if I tagged along. I hope it' s okay." Her voice was laced with a triumphant condescension. I gave her a small, tight smile and climbed into the back seat without a word. I was the other woman in my own husband' s car. During the drive, Drake kept trying to engage me in conversation, his eyes finding mine in the rearview mirror. I gave one-word answers, my attention fixed on my phone. At the restaurant, one of Drake' s friends, Mark, pulled me aside. "Hey, Eliza. About that photo… Drake feels terrible. It was just a drunken mistake." He was trying to run interference, to smooth things over like he' d done a dozen times before. "I' m not angry, Mark," I said, looking him in the eye. "In fact, congratulations are in order. You and Sarah are finally married." He looked stunned. The old Eliza would have made a scene, or at the very least, accepted his flimsy excuses with tearful resignation. This calm, detached Eliza was a stranger to him. He remembered the time I' d cornered him at a Christmas party, calling him out for covering for Drake' s affair with a marketing intern. He' d stammered and fled. The restaurant manager approached our table. "Mr. Bridges, Ms. Hill. Shall I open the bottle of champagne you have stored with us?" My gaze flickered from Drake' s panicked face to Kandace' s smug one. So they were regulars here. They had their own bottle. "Of course," I said brightly, before Drake could speak. "Open all of them. It' s a celebration." I excused myself to the restroom, walking on steady legs. Drake followed me, grabbing my arm in the hallway. "Eliza, wait. The champagne, it' s not what you think. It was for a client…" I waved a dismissive hand, pulling my arm from his grasp. "Drake, I don' t care." I walked into the ladies' room, leaving him standing there, his mouth agape. When I returned, the party was in full swing. Drake was fending off a toast, putting himself between a drunken client and Kandace, protecting her. "She can' t drink too much," he was saying, his voice firm but gentle. "She has a low tolerance." A memory, sharp and cold, pierced the fog of my indifference. A dinner, years ago. I was allergic to alcohol, a fact Drake often chose to forget when it was inconvenient. A client kept pushing me to drink, to toast to a new deal. I looked to Drake for help, but he just laughed. "Don' t be a spoilsport, Eliza. Just drink it. If you have a reaction, I' ll drive you to the ER for a stomach pump." I drank the wine. The rest of the night was a blur of hives, fever, and crippling stomach cramps. We went to the hospital. A doctor came into the room, her face grim. She told me I had been pregnant. She told me I had miscarried. When Drake heard the news, he didn' t hold me. He didn' t comfort me. He turned on me, his face contorted with rage. "You lost it? How could you be so careless? I told you not to go out drinking with your friends!" He had blamed me. For his mistake. For our loss. The memory was so vivid it stole the air from my lungs. I looked at him now, gallantly protecting Kandace from a single glass of champagne, and something inside me finally, irrevocably, snapped. I grabbed my purse from the table and walked out of the restaurant without a word. He followed me home, of course. He stormed into our apartment, his face thunderous. "What the hell was that, Eliza? You just walked out! You embarrassed me in front of everyone!" I didn' t answer. I just stood in the middle of our living room, my purse still clutched in my hand. He sneered. "What' s the matter now? Are you going to threaten to leave me again?" He laughed, a short, ugly sound. "Fine. Let' s get a divorce." He' d said it before. The last time was because I' d bought the wrong brand of coffee. I had begged him, sobbing, to take it back. I had promised to be better, to be more careful. This time, I looked him straight in the eye. My voice was quiet, but it echoed in the silent room. "Okay."