At 5 PM, they converged at the Estates. Three hundred miles away, I sat alone at my dining room table, watching their dots on the map.
I never should’ve left.
A stemmed glass of Pinot Noir sat on the table in front of me. I grabbed it by the bulb and took a sip.
After a year of Sauvignon Blanc, the red tasted bitter.
The party played out like a movie in my head. I could quote every line and name every character, including the loud, tipsy idiot on the couch wearing a confetti party hat.
Me.
I almost texted them. The blinking cursor in our group chat waited for me to say something, but —
I don’t want to bother them. They’re having fun.
I set my phone face down on the table.
/
I pulled the notebook toward me. If I can’t tell them, I have to get everything out somehow.
My head felt foggy from the wine, but the pen glided across the page.
A crisp page flip masked my sniffling. It had been an awful afternoon.
The distance made everything worse.
The cat hopped into my lap. I scratched the top of her head with my free hand.
She purred and pressed into my palm.
I wrote faster. Soon, my pen outpaced my brain.
My words, once careful and legible, melted into scribbled nonsense.
I crammed my final thoughts into the bottom margin and closed the notebook.
Somewhere in those pages, I forgot all about the Estates.