Chapter 5
Tuesday evening rolled around with the heavy, humid heat typical of late summer in the city. While Connor was presumably tearing our Ecopark home apart looking for his passport, choking on takeout pizza because he didn't know how to operate our high-end convection oven, I was sitting on Maya’s balcony sharing a bottle of crisp white wine and ordering gourmet takeout sushi.
"To vanishing acts," Maya said, clinking her wine glass against mine.
"To vanishing acts," I echoed, feeling a profound sense of lightness that I hadn't experienced since before I met Connor.
My phone remained silent, protected by the wonderful barrier of the block list, but Maya’s phone—which Barbara didn't call quite as often—buzzed around seven-thirty. It was a text from Sarah, our neighbor, offering a juicy live update from the front lines of the Miller household.
“You guys, it is an absolute circus over at Connor’s house right now. Connor missed his flight to Singapore because he couldn't find his passport, his boss is furious, and Barbara is pacing the driveway screaming about ungrateful wives. You picked a great time to disappear, Clara.”
Maya burst out laughing, reading the text aloud before handing me the phone so I could savor every single word.
"Missed his flight," I murmured, shaking my head in disbelief. For six years, Connor had coasted through his career on the invisible wings of my administrative competence. He had never missed a flight, never forgotten a document, never shown up to a meeting unprepared, because I had acted as his human shock absorber. Now, stripped of his safety net for a single forty-eight-hour period, he had crashed directly into reality.
"What do you think he's doing right now?" Maya asked, eyes sparkling with malicious glee.
"Probably standing in the middle of the kitchen staring at the microwave like it’s a spaceship," I replied with a grin.
Little did I know, the circus was about to move to a much larger stage.
Wednesday morning brought a formal escalation. Since Connor couldn't reach me directly, and Barbara’s toxic phone calls had been blocked across all of Maya's devices, the Millers decided to deploy their ultimate weapon: Uncle Stan, the family patriarch and a senior partner at a prominent local real estate firm.
Stan didn't text. He showed up at Maya’s apartment building at ten in the morning, pounding on the front door with heavy, authoritative knocks that rattled the hallway walls.
When Maya cracked the door open with a cold, unimpressed expression, Stan pushed his way inside without an invitation, his face flushed red with righteous indignation.
"Alright, where is she?" Stan boomed, standing in the center of the living room and adjusting his expensive silk tie. "Clara, this little childish stunt has gone far enough. Connor missed an international business meeting because of your temper tantrum, Barbara is beside herself with worry, and the entire family is talking about this ridiculous behavior. Get your things. You’re coming home right now."
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I didn't flinch. I slowly set my coffee mug down on the kitchen counter, walked out into the living room, and folded my arms across my chest, looking at my uncle-in-law the exact same way a scientist might examine an interesting specimen under a microscope.
"Good morning, Stan," I said, my voice ice-cold. "Did you forget how to use a doorbell?"
