Free Northern Lights by Asta Idonea Page A

toes of Richard’s loafers enter my field of vision as he steps toward me. I find myself wondering why his shoes always have to be so goddamn shiny. “At least I’m doing something worthwhile with my life. With you it’s just one pointless project after another. You’re a dreamer, Jimmy, and a scrounger—always have been, always will be. Don’t forget I’m the one who keeps a roof over our heads, who puts food on the table.”
    “No, Mr. Big-Shot Lawyer, I hadn’t forgotten. You never let me forget it.”
    “What the hell do you want from me, Jimmy?”
    “Only for you to be here, to put me ahead of your work now and then. And if you can’t do that, well, maybe we should just call it quits.”
    I look up to find Richard regarding me with one of his assessing looks—the look he usually reserves for witnesses during cross-examinations.
    “You know what? You’re right. It’s clear we both want very different things, and I think it is time we moved on. This trip may have achieved its aim after all. It’s given us this chance to make a clean break.” He turns away and retrieves his suitcase. A moment later he has the bag open and is repacking the clothing he removed from its confines less than an hour ago. “Stay out the week, Jimmy, and see your Northern Lights. There’s plenty of money on your Cash Passport. When I get home, I’ll move your things into the guest room, and you can stay as long as you need once you get back. Peter owes me one. I’ll ask him to find you a nice outer-London apartment with affordable rates. I’ll even pay the first month’s rent for you while you find yourself a job.” He zips the case shut and pulls on his coat. His wallet and phone go into the pockets, and then he picks up the suitcase. “I’d better get to the airport and sort out the flight home. Have a good birthday, Jimmy. I’ll see you back in London.”
    Richard opens the door.
    He steps out into the hallway.
    The door clicks shut behind him.
    And then he’s gone.
    A strange sound comes out of my mouth, somewhere between a word and a guttural sob, and I sink to the floor. I pull my knees in tight and wrap my arms around them, rocking forward and back.
    What just happened? More importantly, how could I let it happen? I just stood there, an openmouthed idiot, as my boyfriend of five years left me. I should have stopped him. I should have apologized and told him I loved him. I should have begged him to stay and talk things over. Instead, I baited him. I dared him to go and then did nothing when he called my bluff.
    With a whimper, I roll over onto my side, and the thick fibers of the carpet soak up my tears.
     
     
    I MUST have fallen asleep, because the next time I open my eyes, it’s dark outside. A glance at the digital alarm clock on the bedside table confirms it’s after ten, and I drag myself into a sitting position and from there to my feet.
    I look out of the window, taking in the five-star, no-expenses-spared view of the city. The lights from the buildings are reflected in Tjörnin Pond, creating a kaleidoscope of color. The artist in me acknowledges its beauty, and a muted voice in the back of my mind prompts me to reach for my camera. But the heartbroken, disconsolate part of my soul is the stronger right now, so I draw the curtains and turn away.
    I kick off my shoes and lie upon the bed. Folding my hands behind my head, I stare up at the ceiling, tracing the shadowed form of the lampshade, trying to decide what to do. I could ignore Richard’s parting words and catch the next available flight home. Maybe if he and I talked, we could find a way to patch things up between us. But no, that’s nothing but a pipe dream. This split has been a long time coming. I think we both knew it, but neither of us wanted to be the one to speak up first. Even if we could make amends after this argument, it would be no more than wrapping a bandage around an already fatal wound—a prolongation of an inevitable