“We had a cancellation,” she said. “December 30 at eight in the morning.”
“Perfect.”
That was my calm switch.
No argument.
No warning.
No scene in the kitchen that would have ended with Erica crying and Craig telling me I was overreacting.
Just a new date.
Then I made tea, opened my laptop, and remembered Erica’s suggestion that I rent an Airbnb.
So I took her advice.
I found a tiny winter cabin about three hours north. One small bedroom. A kitchenette barely large enough for a kettle. Maximum occupancy: two. A place built for a quiet couple, not a crowd of fifteen with suitcases and coolers and garment bags.
I booked it for December 31 and January 1 under the Phillips name so the host would be expecting Erica’s parents.
Then I went shopping for boxes.
Not normal moving boxes.
Eight boxes that could fit inside one another, from enormous down to something about the size of a jewelry box. I found them at a discount store, nested together like a puzzle, and the clerk looked at me strangely when I bought only that one set and nothing else.
At a dollar store, I found a ridiculous neon-green plastic skeleton key from a children’s pirate set.