Chapter 13: The Exit Strategy
1397 Words
The sun rose over Chicago like a fresh bruise—purple, gray, and bitterly cold.
Liam sat on the edge of the air mattress in Ben’s spare room. He was fully dressed, wearing layers of thermal clothes that hung loosely on his wasted frame. He had lost ten pounds in two weeks; his belt was cinched to the last hole, digging into his hipbones, anchoring pants that felt like they belonged to a stranger.
Beside him sat a single black duffel bag. It contained the sum total of his remaining life: three changes of clothes, two bottles of heavy-duty painkillers, a bottle of water, and a wad of cash.
No photos. No mementos. No blue mug.
He was leaving as light as smoke. If he was going to erase himself, he couldn't leave any debris behind.
The door to the spare room creaked open. Ben stood there, fully dressed in jeans and a parka, holding a car key. He looked like he hadn't slept in a week. His eyes were red-rimmed, his jaw covered in dark stubble.
"The car is running," Ben said. His voice was a gravelly whisper, cracking in the middle. "It's warm."
"Okay," Liam said.
He tried to stand.
His brain sent the signal—stand up—but the connection fizzled somewhere in his spine. His left leg collapsed under him. He pitched forward, grabbing the edge of the cheap dresser to stop himself from face-planting into the carpet.
The wood groaned under his weight.
"Liam!" Ben surged forward, dropping the keys, his hands reaching out to catch him.
"I got it," Liam snapped, shaking him off.
He hated the pity. He hated the weakness more than the pain. He gritted his teeth, sweat breaking out on his forehead from the sheer effort, and hauled himself upright using the wooden cane. He stood there for a moment, swaying, waiting for the black spots in his vision to clear. The Hum was a roar today, a jet engine idling in his skull.
"I said I got it," Liam rasped, adjusting his grip on the cane.
He looked around the small, beige room that had been his purgatory for the last month. The walls were bare. The bed was stripped. It was as if he had never been there.
"Is the notebook in the kitchen?" Liam asked.
"Yeah," Ben said, looking away, unable to watch Liam struggle. "It's on the table."
"Good," Liam said. "Let's go."
They walked down the hallway. It was a slow, agonizing procession. Thump, drag. Thump, drag. The sound of the cane hitting the hardwood floor echoed in the silent house like a clock counting down seconds he didn't have.
In the kitchen, the spiral-bound notebook sat in the center of the table. It looked innocuous—just a cheap d**g-store notepad with a cardboard cover. But inside was the DNA of a seven-year relationship. Inside was the source code for Sarah’s happiness.
Liam stopped. He rested his hand on the cover. The paper felt cold.
"I wrote a final entry last night," Liam said, keeping his eyes on the book.
"Liam, you don't have to—"
"Page 20," Liam interrupted, his voice steady. "The Proposal. She wants it private. No Jumbotron, no restaurants, no audience. She wants it in the snow. She wants to be wearing her pajamas. And she wants you to ask her with a ring that isn't too flashy. Vintage cut. Gold band."
Ben made a choked sound in his throat. He looked at the notebook as if it were radioactive.
"I can't take this, Liam. I can't take the manual. I can't become you."
"You're not becoming me," Liam said, sliding the notebook across the table toward Ben. "You're becoming the man who stays. That's the upgrade."
He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a white envelope. On the front, in shaky, block letters that betrayed his tremor, he had written: SARAH.
"Give this to her," Liam said.
Ben took the envelope. His hands were shaking. "What is it?"
"A neighborly goodbye," Liam said. "Tell her I got a job in Seattle. Architecture firm. Big promotion. Tell her I had to leave immediately for orientation. Tell her... tell her I said she's a nice girl and I wish her luck."
"She's going to be hurt," Ben argued. "She thought you guys were friends. She'll wonder why you didn't say goodbye in person. It’s cruel."
"Good," Liam said. "Let her be hurt. Let her be annoyed. Annoyance is better than grief. If she thinks I’m a jerk who skipped town, she won’t miss me."
He turned toward the back door. He couldn't go out the front. He couldn't risk Sarah looking out her window at 6:00 AM and seeing the "healthy neighbor" hobbling like a cripple.
"Ready?" Liam asked.
Ben swallowed hard, tucking the envelope into his pocket. "Ready."
---
The drive to Union Station was suffocatingly silent.
The city was waking up around them. Snowplows scraped against the asphalt, throwing sparks in the gray light. Commuters bundled in thick scarves hurried toward the L-train stations, their breath puffing in white clouds.
Liam watched them through the passenger window. He felt a profound, chilling sense of detachment. He wasn't part of this world anymore. He wasn't a commuter. He wasn't an architect. He wasn't a fiancé. He was a ghost in transit. He was a memory that hadn't faded yet.
When they pulled up to the curb at the station, the majestic Great Hall loomed above them, its stone columns imposing and gray.
Ben put the car in park. He gripped the steering wheel so hard the leather creaked under his fingers.
"I'm coming in with you," Ben said.
"No," Liam said immediately. "The train leaves in twenty minutes. I don't want a scene."
"I'm not letting you hobble onto a train alone, Liam!" Ben shouted, finally breaking. Tears spilled over his lashes, tracking down his unshaven cheeks. "You're my best friend! You're dying! You expect me to just drop you off at the curb like... like laundry?"
"Yes," Liam said softly.
He reached over and put his hand on Ben’s shoulder. His grip was weak, his fingers trembling, but the connection was there.
"Ben, look at me."
Ben turned, his face ravaged by grief.
"You have a job to do," Liam said sternly. "You have to go back to that house. You have to knock on her door. You have to give her the letter. And then, you have to take her to breakfast. You have to order her pancakes with extra syrup, and you have to make her laugh."
"I can't make her laugh today," Ben sobbed. "Not after this."
"You have to," Liam said. "Because if you're sad, she'll know something is wrong. You have to be the light, Ben. I'm the shadow. You're the light. That's the deal."
Ben wiped his eyes with his sleeve, nodding jerkily. "The light. Okay. I can do that."
"Good."
Liam opened the door. The cold air rushed in, smelling of diesel fumes and ice. He grabbed his cane. He grabbed his duffel bag.
"Liam," Ben called out as Liam stepped onto the curb.
Liam paused, one foot on the pavement, the other dragging behind.
"What if she remembers?" Ben asked, his voice trembling. "What if... what if the amnesia wears off? What if she wakes up one day and asks for you?"
Liam stared at the dirty snow on the curb. He thought of the blue mug. He thought of the red scarf.
"Tell her I died," Liam said. "Tell her I died in a car crash a long time ago. Don't let her come looking for me."
"Where are you going?" Ben asked. "At least tell me where. In case..."
"North," Liam said. "Somewhere cold. Somewhere quiet."
He hauled himself out of the car. He slammed the door shut before Ben could say anything else.
He didn't look back.
He forced his bad leg to move. Step. Drag. Step. Drag.
He walked toward the station entrance, focusing entirely on the rhythm, focusing on not falling. He felt Ben’s eyes burning into his back. He knew Ben was watching until he disappeared through the glass doors.
When the doors slid shut behind him, cutting off the chill, Liam finally let out the breath he had been holding.
He was alone.
- Writer
