He leaned over his desk, giving me a kiss that lingered for as long as his cell was silent, but then another chirp sounded and Ethan nodded at me. “I’m sorry, baby, but I really am swamped.”
“No problem,” I told him, squeezing his hand before I headed for his door. I’d barely managed to walk through the threshold when two of his impatient clerks bee-lined for Ethan’s desk. One glance over my shoulder and I caught the smallest glimpse of him before the door closed completely. Ethan hadn’t even looked up from his phone.
The Cowboys had beaten the Dolphins on their own field. It was one more loss that had Ransom retreating to his small media room in our three-bedroom condo to review his tapes and figure out, yet again, what he’d been doing wrong during the game.
He completely ignored the concussion he’d gotten when the Cowboys offense blocked his tackle. He’d gotten hit so hard this time that he hadn't moved a muscle for the longest time, lay sprawled on that field looking up, not seeing his teammates or the physicians as they examined him. He’d been unresponsive for the longest three minutes of my life.
He’d punished himself for a week, obsessing about his plays, his blocks, the blitz that he didn’t manage and that damn tackle. Not once did he seem remotely concerned about the concussion. Around the fourth day, post injury, I realized he’d never take this seriously, not until it was too late.
I couldn’t do it. Not a second longer. Not when he disregarded my worry yet again.
“I’m fine, Aly. You need to calm down,” he’d said the second he’d walked through the door that game day. He didn’t even bother to return my kiss or accept my hug. He was too pissed, I knew, about losing. My worry wasn’t even a factor anymore. Like a fly buzzing at the window.
I made up my mind to leave when he abandoned me for his media room and the analysis of why he’d gotten hit. It had taken me a week to work up the courage to actually prepare: there was a month’s worth of frozen home cooked meals in the freezer and all the bills had been paid. My stuff had been in suitcases for months. I was always gone, back to New Orleans or to New York for a fill-in gig when Tommy or one of my other off-Broadway dancer friends needed me.
My dresser was mostly empty. It wouldn’t take me long to pack. Only one thing was left—telling Ransom I was going.
Night number four and he was back in front of the screen watching his tapes. The light flickered from the television as he turned it off and I heard him move out onto the balcony that ran the length of our condo. The silhouette of palm trees lining the shore looked pitch black against the Miami skyline where the city shone brighter than a new penny. There was so much activity, so much chaos and life being led out there that Miami, no matter how beautiful it was, how rich the culture, had me aching for the slow pace and sweet taste of New Orleans.
That fast pace, was just another factor. We’d been there nearly three years and I had never completely unpacked. Ransom wouldn’t be surprised by my leaving. I knew that. It had been months that we’d gone without touching. Weeks where we kept missing each other, where responsibilities and schedules kept us from being in the same city for more than one or two nights.
“I miss you, Ransom and I’m so lonely,” I’d told him just a month before.
“Come here, makamae. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” he’d soothed, taking me on his lap right out on that balcony with the lights of the fast moving city all around us. At the time, I thought we were the only things still. I thought we were the only things taking a second to see the life spinning around us.
Now Ransom leaned on the railing, his gaze all over that skyline, his stance a little unsteady as he gripped the metal edge of the balcony in front of him. I closed my eyes, reminding myself to call the nurse before I left. He couldn’t be left alone in the morning. It was too dangerous.
Ransom’s mouth was drawn down, his body so rigid, so filled with tension. I wanted to pull that away from him, to slip inside his bones and break away the knots and pressure that had him unable to relax.
“You okay?” I’d asked, slipping through the glass door. The night was hot, the humidity booming at ninety-five percent so that my skin felt damp and my already curly hair tightened in the night air.