Chapter 1

Yesterday morning started right at sunrise. I’d passed out watching a show on my laptop and forgot to close the blinds. Awkward sunrays gently landed on my face, reminding me that there’s still life out there—I just needed to get up and seize it.
Not today, you cheery bastard, I thought to myself, covering my head with the corner of the blanket. But I couldn’t sleep any longer. Something was picking at my nerves, forcing me to embrace the day against my will.

The apartment was in disarray. Jason’s stuff still cluttered every surface—chargers, notebooks, protein shakers, a half-used bottle of his beard oil on the counter like he might come back and need it. Piles of my clothes lay staggered on the floor in chaotic little nests, laundry baskets half-filled but never sorted.

I’d tried to clean. Tried to organize. Tried to reclaim the space as mine. But I think a part of me was still clinging to the idea that he lived here. That if I kept everything just as he left it, none of it would be real.

I shuffled toward the window, pushing aside a pair of dirty leggings with my foot. The floor creaked beneath me. I had a pair of fuzzy slippers that Jason’s mom got me for Christmas. They were the ugliest things ever—muddy beige with some kind of rabbit ears flopping off the front—but I wore them to make Jason happy, pretending like I was grateful for everything his mother did.
I wondered if he was with her right now. He’d only packed a small duffel of work clothes and left the day he announced our breakup. Last time I checked, he was staying at a place I didn’t recognize—maybe with a friend. I stopped looking after that. Removed his location sharing from my phone; didn’t want to sabotage my integrity by one day getting drunk and showing up at his door in the middle of the night, wet hair, ugly slippers, begging him to take me back.

I took a sip of lukewarm coffee and winced. It tasted like burnt regret. I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was forgetting something—something important—but lately, all the days melted into one long, gloomy blur. I hadn’t left the apartment in days. Maybe weeks.
Nadia told me to take as much time off as I needed. “Don’t even think about work,” she’d said.

I wasn’t. In fact, I wasn’t sure I’d ever go back. I think she knew that too.
My life was literally falling apart.

I stared at the clouds, which had lovingly accompanied my depression, putting Denver at a slower pace than usual, hiding all the giggling kids indoors.

There was definitely something important I was forgetting. I took another sip. What could it be?

Jason had made us a family calendar that hung right by the entrance to make sure we didn’t forget important things before heading out. But let’s be honest—he made the calendar for me. I hardly saw him looking at it, except for the times he was scrutinously adding events to it with a ballpoint pen.
I should go check it out.

Maneuvering through the minefield of clothes, trying to avoid collision, I made my way to the calendar. It still brightly announced August in Jason’s stupid calligraphy, even though we were well into September. I hadn’t even flipped the page. How fitting.
I turned it over to the correct month, with an image of fall leaves in a park, and it hit me right in the face—today’s date circled and singed: “Cancun Trip Begins!”

Oh shit. It can’t be today. Please, God, no.

I grabbed my phone, which had been permanently on “Do Not Disturb” since the breakup, and checked the date.
Shit. It is today.
I looked at the calendar again, my heart doing backflips. The flight’s in three hours. Oh no. No no no. I’m really, really screwed now. Aren’t you supposed to already be at the airport three hours before takeoff, not just realizing you’re supposed to be leaving the country?

Panic kicked in.

I bolted through the apartment, scooping up whatever looked mildly useful and flinging it onto the bed—the only place that wasn’t a disaster zone. I’d been carefully guarding one half of it, the half I sleep on. The other side still had Jason’s old hoodie tossed over the pillow. I sometimes cuddled it through the night, inhaling the remains of his smell. I shot it a concerned look, thinking if I should take it. The thing was covered in crusty makeup stains and probably soaked with my tears.
Sorry, you’re staying home, emotional-support hoodie.

Okay, Mia. Focus. Channel Jason.
How would he do this?
He had a system for everything, I swear. But Jason would’ve been fully packed and ready to head out a week ago.
I have to do this Mia-style. Which means improvise and figure it out as I go. That works for me. I mean, what do I really need for a trip? My passport, a suitcase, and sunscreen is a start. A good one, if I do say so myself.

Suitcases were easy—two of them were stacked in the closet, and the passports were in the safe that Jason insisted on purchasing.

I knelt in front of the damn thing. This was the worst time to try to remember the passcode. Jason picked it… What was it? The day we met?
I punched it in—beep, the bad kind.
His birthday maybe? I tried typing “0507,” and the safe lock clicked open.
Self-centered prick, I huffed.

But my anger quickly got replaced with appreciation: inside the velvet-lined metal box were neatly stacked piles of cash, my passport, and the printout for the flight tickets.
So now only sunscreen remained, and I was set for success.

I loaded both suitcases to the brim with random clothes—anything that caught my eye while I was running around trying to make myself look somewhat presentable. Eventually, I ran out of space and had to pick up an extra bag for makeup and other small necessities. I’m such a mess.

Somewhere between my fourth trip between the kitchen and the bathroom, I muttered the old mantra my stepmom used to drill into my grandpa before every outing to make sure he checked everything before heading out:
“Keys, ID, money, stove, door.”

I added “passport and dignity” to mine today, but unfortunately, the latter was clearly missing.

The suitcases jumped and seemed like they were on the verge of breaking open as I rushed down the stairs, after giving up on waiting for the elevator. The taxi I had called was already idling outside.

“Hey, sorry for the wait. My suitcases were quite heavy, and I—”
The car took off without as much as an acknowledgment of my presence. The driver turned on some jazz music and looked directly at the road, like a soldier on duty. Not a talkative type. Got it.
Well, it’s not like I’ve got much to say anyway.

Was I going to make it in time? My nerves were on edge. I was really doing this by myself. Completely alone. I rubbed my hands to calm myself down.

A small fake diamond was still circling the ring finger of my left hand. I hadn’t even noticed I was still wearing the engagement ring. The one Jason had ordered online without ever asking what kind of jewelry I liked. I remember him saying, “It’s not about the ring, it’s about the promise.”
Yeah. Promises break just like cheap metal.

I yanked it off before I could think twice and shoved it deep into the side pocket of my purse, where forgotten lipsticks and receipts go to die.

By the time we reached the airport, my hands were sweating and my stomach twisted into knots.
Watch out Mexico, here I come!

I bolted through the sliding doors of Denver International, a suitcase in each hand, my shoulder bag smacking against my ribs with every step.

I rushed to the check in counter for United Airlines, a suitcase in each hand and a bag over my shoulder, darting full speed, there was

The taxi driver had taken the wrong exit—thought 270 was 70—and cost me five minutes I couldn’t afford. Five minutes that might decide whether I made it to Cancun or spent the weekend rage-crying in a Denver airport lounge.

You’d think in this day and age people would know how to use GPS. Then again, I wasn’t doing so hot with directions myself.

I skidded to a stop at the United counter, only to find a massive line snaking toward a sign that might as well have read: ABANDON ALL HOPE, LATE PEOPLE.

“Baggage must be checked at least 45 minutes before departure.”