The following Tuesday, we left for an eight-day vacation to Princeville, Kauai, despite the tension that remained, starting with an Oldie-but-Goodie about whose car to take to the airport.
I tried to reassure her that she had options. That we had options. After an increasingly loud conversation at poolside one afternoon, we thought it best to go back to the room.
Early on, I’d told her about the ending of another, equally intense relationship, on the last night of a trip to Edinburgh and London, and the eight-hour flight back home the next day, in cold, stony silence.
When we got to the room she challenged me with, “Is this beginning to feel like that flight across the Atlantic”? “Let’s not go there”, I snapped back. “How many times have you been here, with how many different guys, and how many happy endings do you have to show for it?”
She slumped against the bed. Said she was sorry we weren’t getting along. She closed her eyes. In that instant, all the air left the room.
Two days later, we came home. A week after that, it was over. After a conversation both angry and sad, in tears, she said she thought it was time for her to go back to Atlanta. I agreed, despite being totally unconvinced there was any wisdom behind what either of us was saying.
I collected my things and left. For the first time, I felt like it was really over. Really. Over.
It’s been four months with no contact, except for an occasional snot-note I’d send, letting her know I was still angry about how she’d let her anger end us.
Three weeks ago, I was back in Vancouver for another speech. While at the airport waiting to come home, I texted her about there being a flight departing to Kelowna the next gate over. Each time, the same response.