Gone For The Next Three Years

Margo told me I was crazy to sink my savings into a sprawling mid-century modern for a wedding gift to ourselves. She hummed and hawed about interest rates and the volatile market, begging me to wait.

But I couldn't wait. I was turning thirty. In my head, signing the deed was the only way to anchor the drifting ship of my relationship before we could finally say "I do."

The day I wired the earnest money, I sat in our living room, the purchase agreement in hand, vibrating with excitement. I was waiting for Gary to come home so I could drop the surprise.

When he walked in, he didn't smile. He looked grim, like a man walking to the gallows.

"Nora," he said, his voice heavy. "The house money... I need to use it to get Sasha a lease on a place downtown."

I froze. He sighed, running a hand through his hair. "She just got back to the States. She has no credit history, no family here. Shes fragile, Nora. We can wait on the house. We can squeeze into a smaller apartment for a while, can't we?"

My phone buzzed in my lap. A text from Margo: Nora, I can't keep my mouth shut anymore. I was at the leasing office at The Kensington today. I saw Gary and Sasha. They were looking at the penthouses. Pretty sure he put down a deposit. Don't let him play you.

I looked at the screen, blinking as the text blurred, then looked up at Garys face. He looked so self-righteous. So sure of his moral high ground. The contract in my hand suddenly felt like a joke. A paper prop in a bad play.

I nodded slowly. "Okay."

Then, right in front of him, I dialed the realtor.

"Hi, David. Yeah, its Nora. Cancel the contract."

David, the realtor, sputtered on the other end. "Nora, you know if you walk away now, you lose the earnest money. Thats fifty grand."

"Oh," I said, my voice flat, devoid of any tremor. "Thats fine. I don't want it anymore."

I hung up. The silence in the room was deafening.

Garys face was a study in confusion. He looked as if Id just spoken in a dead language. He clearly hadn't expected the nuclear option.

He stepped closer, reaching out to hug me. "Nora, don't be dramatic. I know you're disappointed. But we have a lifetime to buy a house, right?"

I didn't hug him back. I stood there wondering: Do we really have a lifetime?

I walked past him into the living room and sat on the hardwood floor.

The space where I had planned to put a new Italian leather sofa was currently covered in a drop cloth. Spread out across it were my tools: bone folders, Japanese tissue, wheat starch paste.

The air smelled of old papera scent of vanilla and decayand the sharp, vinegary tang of the reversible glue I used.

Gary wrinkled his nose. He hated that smell.

"Nora, stop it," he said, his tone shifting into that authoritative register he used when he wanted to close a deal. "What are we doing for dinner?"

I didn't look up from the foxed page I was treating. I just pointed a finger at the dining table.

Sitting there, lonely and pathetic, was a single cup of instant noodles.

He walked over and loomed above me. "The apartment for Sasha is just a rental, Nora. Its not like I bought it. Shes alone, her health is a mess..."

He started the speech. The one I knew by heart. The one about responsibility. About how Sashas brother had died serving in the same unit as him, and how looking after her was a sacred blood oath.

I didn't argue. I didn't look at him.

I picked up a hake brush, soft as a whisper, and gently swept the dust from the spine of the book.

"Okay," I said softly.

One word. It choked off the rest of his monologue.

He must have thought I was just sulking. He sighed, reached into his briefcase, and pulled out a velvet-wrapped box.

"Nora, look. I won this at an auction for you. Its a Song Dynasty inkstone. For the new study."

He opened the box. The stone was dark, cool, and undeniably expensive.

I finally looked up. I glanced at the inkstone, then at him.

"Keep it," I said. "Or send me the invoice from the auction house, and I'll wire you the cost."

The expectation on Garys face cracked, fracturing like cheap glass.

"What... what is that supposed to mean?"

I didn't answer. I looked down and opened a camphor wood chest. From inside, I reverently lifted a set of brass finishing tools wrapped in silk. They were antique French gilding instruments I had inherited from my mentor. I never took them out of the house.

Now, I was packing them. One by one.

Panic, real and sudden, finally hit him.

He lunged forward, grabbing my wrist. His grip was too tight.

"Nora! What the hell are you doing?"

It hurt, but I didn't wince. I just calmly pulled my hand from his grasp.

"I'm going to the studio. Overtime. We have a deadline on a restoration."

He stood frozen, watching me pack my life away with terrifying efficiency.

He finally realized this wasn't a tantrum.

I pulled an all-nighter at the studio, stabilizing a crumbling 18th-century map.

I didn't go home the next day. Instead, I met Margo at a gallery opening in Chelsea.

Gary hated my job. He called my studio "a dusty recycling center for things that should be thrown away." He hated my friends even more, calling them "pretentious bohemians with empty pockets."

The opening was loud, a sea of expensive perfume and clinking glass.

Margo raised her champagne flute against mine. "Finally seeing the light?"

I smiled, a small, sad thing, and downed my drink.

We stayed until the gallery closed. I posted a photo of the toast on Instagram. No caption. Just the image.

When I got home, it was 2:00 AM.

The apartment was dark, save for the cherry-red ember of a cigarette glowing by the sofa.

I flipped the switch.

Gary was sitting there, scowling. The ashtray was overflowing.

He crushed the cigarette out, adopting the tone of a disappointed father. "Where have you been? Staying out late just to punish me? Thats childish, Nora."

I hadn't slept in thirty hours. I had champagne in my system. My bones felt heavy.

I didn't have the energy to fight.

I looked him in the eye and said, "Gary, your rules don't apply to me anymore."

I didn't go to the master bedroom. I walked straight to the guest roomthe one hed made me turn into a storage closet for his off-season suits and golf clubs.

I pushed the door open, ignoring his stunned expression, and stepped inside.

Click. I locked it.

I waited for the pounding on the door. The shouting.

But there was only silence.

The next morning, the Cold War began.

I showered and dressed. He sat at the kitchen island reading the Wall Street Journal, pretending I didn't exist.

I ignored him right back. I made coffee, leaned against the counter, and dialed Dr. Thorne, the director of the National Archives.

"Dr. Thorne, hello. Its Nora Jinx."

"Regarding the 'Blackwood Abbey' manuscript project... Ive thought it over. I accept."

Dr. Thorne was ecstatic on the other end of the line.

Behind me, the rustling of the newspaper stopped.

The project was a three-year residency. Closed campus. Deep in the Adirondack Mountains, restoring a library of theological texts damaged by water and time.

I had turned it down months ago because Gary threw a fit about long-distance relationships.

I hung up the phone and walked back to the guest room without glancing at him.

That evening, I came back from the studio to grab some reference books.

I walked in to find Gary on the phone, a soft, tender look on his face that I hadn't seen in years.

"Just listen to me, don't be stubborn. I hired a nutritionist for you; she starts tomorrow."

"I know the food here upsets your stomach. I had the housekeeper make that bird's nest soup you like. I'll bring it over soon."

He saw me, and the smile vanished. He hung up abruptly.

I assumed it was Sasha.

He braced himself, expecting me to scream or cry.

But I just walked past him. I spread a large topographic map on the living room rugpart of the dossier Dr. Thorne had sent over.

I took a red marker and started circling routes, planning the drive into the mountains.

He was arranging a private chef for his "fragile bird," worrying about her digestion.

And I sat in front of him, mapping out a life that didn't include him.

In the middle of the night, a knock on the guest room door jolted me awake.

I opened it to find Gary swaying in the hallway, smelling of scotch.

He blinked, seeming surprised that I was actually sleeping in the storage room. "Why haven't you texted me all day? Not a single update?"

I leaned against the doorframe, the question striking me as absurd.

He started rambling. "You know, at dinner tonight, Cole and the guys... their wives were calling every hour. Checking in. Asking when theyd be home."

"And me? I sat there like an idiot with a silent phone. Like nobody gave a damn about me."

His voice was thick with self-pity.

My head was pounding. I stared at him, my patience evaporating.

"You hate it when I check in," I said. "You told me it was suffocating. You said it was an 'invasion of your privacy' and showed a lack of trust."

"I'm trusting you now. Isn't that what you wanted?"

He choked on his own words, his face flushing.

Maybe because I didn't sound angry, just tired, he misread the situation. He stepped closer, his voice softening into a slur.

"Nora, I know you're still mad about the house."

"Me and Sasha... its just brother and sister stuff. Her brother died for me. I can't just leave her to rot."

"Stop overthinking it. I'll bring you around more. You'll see. Its just you. Its always been you."

I could barely keep my eyes open. I just wanted him to leave.

I nodded, waving a hand dismissively. "Okay. Sure. Just let me sleep."

He took my exhaustion for surrender. He tried to push into the room, his hand reaching for my waist.

"Come on, Nora. Don't sleep in here. Let's go back to bed..."

The touch felt like a brand. I recoiled, stepping back so fast I nearly tripped. The sleep vanished instantly.

"Get out."

My voice was ice.

His hand hovered in mid-air. In the dim light, his face contortedconfusion, then embarrassment, then anger.

"Nora, don't be a bitch."

I looked him dead in the eye.

"Get. Out."

He glared at me, chest heaving, before spinning around and storming off. The door to the master bedroom slammed hard enough to shake the walls.

Finally. Silence.

I locked the door and lay back down.

Strangely, I didn't feel like crying. My heart rate slowed almost immediately.

I fell asleep within seconds.

The next morning, while organizing my files, I scrolled through Instagram.

There it was. Sashas new post.

She was wearing an oversized white dress shirta man's shirtstanding barefoot in front of floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the skyline.

Caption: Finally feels like I can breathe. Thank you for giving me a home, big brother.

beneath it, Garys business partner, Cole, had commented:

@NoraJinx You should be proud. Gary is a stand-up guy. Most men wouldn't step up like that.

I laughed. A dry, hollow sound.

I replied with a single emoji - Thanks.

Then I blocked Cole.

When my team at the studio found out I was taking the lead on the Blackwood Abbey project, they insisted on a celebration.

We went to a high-end bistro near the flatiron. Everyone chipped in.

The atmosphere was warm, genuine. These were people who respected the craft. This was an honor I had earned with my own hands.

Midway through the meal, the door to our private room creaked open. One of my junior restorers poked her head back in, looking awkward.

"Nora... um, Gary is in the room next door."

Before I could process that, Gary walked in. His entourage trailed behind him.

And there was Sasha, clinging to his arm, beaming like she was the hostess of the event.

She spotted me instantly. A flicker of triumph crossed her face before she masked it with a sweet smile.

She raised her wine glass and walked over. "Nora! What a coincidence. Were celebrating a closed deal. Gary was just talking about you. He said you've been so busy he barely sees you."

Her voice was soft, but pitched perfectly so everyone could hear.

I didn't look at her. I didn't look at Gary.

I gave a tight, polite nod to the air between them, said absolutely nothing, and turned my back to return to my table.

My phone started buzzing in my purse.

I glanced at it. A barrage of texts from Gary.

Nora, don't make a scene. It's a team dinner. Sasha just wanted to thank everyone.

I didn't know you were here.

When are you done? I'll wait. I'll drive you home.

I silenced the phone and dropped it back into my bag.

Towards the end of the night, Professor Halloway arrived. He was a legend in the field of conservation, frail now, but his presence commanded the room.

He had come specifically for me.

He raised a shaking glass, his voice booming with unexpected power.

"Tonight, we are not here for just any dinner. We are here for Nora Jinx!"

"We celebrate the preservation of history! We celebrate that our art will not die with us!"

"To Nora. May your three years at Blackwood be filled with discovery. Go save history for us!"

Applause erupted. Everyone stood up, raising their glasses to me.

I felt tears prick my eyes. I stood up to respond.

BANG.

The door to our room was shoved open.

Gary stood there, his face drained of blood.

He must have come to find me when I didn't text back, just in time to hear the toast.

Behind him, Sasha looked furious, her eyes narrowing as if I had stolen something from her.

Gary ignored the room full of shocked faces. He ignored Sasha.

He stared at me, his eyes wide and unblinking, walking toward me like a sleepwalker.

His voice trembled, distorted by shock and rising anger.

"Three years?"

"Where are you going?"

It was almost funny. In five years, he had never once asked what book I was working on. Now, he wanted to know where I was going.