Page 20 of Carter

I sit at my desk. I run my hands through my hair.

She has to go.

Tomorrow, I will tell her.

I’ll give her two weeks to continue working at Barbells while she finds a job. Then she’s out. After we have our conversation, I’ll head to the airport.

I haven’t taken a vacation in years. Why not now?

I flip open my laptop. Put in my password, Sasha11. The eleven is because every so often, my computer demands I pick a new password. Wanting to keep Sasha, I just kept changing the number after her name.

I still don’t have the heart to erase her.

I type in sun, sand, waves. Pictures of gorgeous white sand beaches pop up. I click on one with aqua waters that recede to a deep turquoise.

Mexico. Perfect.

I’ve always wanted to visit Cabo. I’ll drink her away.

Maybe I’ll even make it out of my room and down to the beach. Come back to the city with a tan.

Then I’ll return to work. She’ll be gone.

And I’ll move on with my life.

I’ll be a bachelor for a while. Then I’ll start dating. I’ll find the woman I’m supposed to be with. One that wants me for who I really am.

A man in a brotherhood of doms.

There are plenty of fish in the sea, my mind tells me.

My gut replies, But there’s only one Sasha.

My fingers begin to type frantically. It’s as if my body has taken over, carrying out my plan for me. Minutes later, I have a first-class flight and a hotel. I triple check the information I’d typed in, careful to be sure I’d booked under my pseudonym, ‘Steven Mitchell.’ I don’t think Bronson would understand if I fucked up and broke our rule of never traveling under the name Bachman, or our birth names—the ones that were erased when we joined—because I was tipsy off drinking rum with my ex. I could take one of our family’s private jets but I’m in the mood for anonymity—losing myself in the crowded airport, bustling amongst strangers.

That’s done; now, to wrap up the business side of things. I send a text and receive back confirmation that my driver will be at the gym at noon to collect me for my one o’clock departure. We know a guy at LaGuardia—I’ll fly through clearance.

I get my assistant manager to confirm filling in while I’m gone. Give him the number of the burner phone I’ll be taking with me in case he needs me.

I call Bronson—the man never sleeps. I tell him what’s up, get him to okay my absence. He gives me condolences on my breakup. He sounds sincere.

I call John. He’s encouraging. Tells me not to worry about a thing, he’ll cover for me at work, take care of my tasks. Tells me to get laid.

Never once says Sasha’s name.

I leave the office. She’s gone.

Good. Now I can lock up and get the hell out of here. I’ll go home, pack a bag, and try to get some rest. Then I’ll come back to work, tell Sasha I cannot keep pretending friendship is enough, and hit the airport. Cabo, here I come.

The rum mixed with the relief of having a plan to move forward with my life allows me a few hours of sleep.

It’s morning and I’m well-rested.

Bag in hand, I walk through the Village, headed to Barbells. The air is chilly, getting cold. I think of the hot sun warming my skin, curing my ills. I feel a smile spread across my face. I whistle as I walk. It’s going to be a good day.

I walk into my gym. It’s buzzing like crazy. Tons of happy, healthy people mill about. Sweating, laughing, pumping iron. My assistant manager running around, eager to please and already enjoying taking my place. Pride wells in my chest. I’ve done a decent job here. I deserve a little break.

I’ve told the girl up front to send Sasha to me as soon as she’s in. I’m waiting in the office. I’m leaning back on the desk, trying to look casual.