The Angel Number

They say bad things come in threes. So after my cat was run over outside the apartment and my new novel was rejected by the last publisher on my agent’s list, I was on edge.

I got back from my morning run on the beach a little later than usual and was hurrying as I pushed through the front door and almost tripped on the suitcases in the hallway.

“Ben? Honey?” I wove through the bags in search of my husband.

I found him in the kitchen. “Going somewhere?”

He whirled around, a pen clasped between his fingers. “Oh! You’re here.”

“Obviously.”

He shifted foot to foot, not meeting my eye. When I moved toward him to get a glass from the cabinet next to the sink, he scooted all the way to the other side of the kitchen. As I pulled the glass down, I caught sight of the half-written note on the counter.

The glass fell from my hand and shattered on the floor. “You’re leaving me?”

Ben gulped and swallowed hard before nodding.

“Someone else?”

He nodded again.

I hated myself for it, but tears to my eyes. I wanted anger, fury. I wanted to scream at him. Throw things. But instead, all I had was hurt and bewilderment. Ten years. We’d been married ten years.

“I’ll…” He swallowed again and moved toward the door. “I’ll see you.”

And just like that, he was gone.

I struggled to work. My sentences were lifeless and leaden, my characters paper thin and lacking any real motivation for their actions. I decided to abandon my WIP after writing 23 pages of suck. It was the first time I’d ever given up on a book without another to move on to. For the first time in my career I would miss a deadline.

I just couldn’t bring myself to care.

I stayed in bed, listening to The Smiths on repeat. Morrisey’s mournful voice surrounded my consciousness day and night – not that I was aware of either with the blackout curtains drawn across my windows. The phone rang and I ignored it, watching the number of missed calls creeping up in the red bubble alongside my emails and messages. I ate ice cream until my stomach ached. The sheets became gritty with crumbs and salt from the number of potato chips I consumed. My face broke out and when I counted 23 pimples on my forehead, that made me more determined to never leave my bed again.

Why should I? I was untalented, unlovable and ugly.

The front door opened and I sat up with a start. Had Ben changed his mind? God! He couldn’t see me like this.

I leaped out of bed and picked up my phone. What time was it? 23:23. Wow. Late.

“You haven’t been answering your phone.” My best friend burst into my room. “You can’t message me that Ben’s left you and then radio silence.”

Why’d I give her a key to the apartment?

“Well?” Donna glared at me.

“Sorry.”

She snorted. “Not good enough. You know your mother called me? Said she’s been trying to get hold of you for days. Your agent couldn’t get hold of you and called your emergency contact.”

“My agent?” I didn’t think she’d have anything to say to me after that last pass. Unless she was about to drop me as a client. That was probably it.

“Have you even been working?”

I just looked at her. Surely the answer to that one was obvious.

“Check your email.”

I picked up the phone and glanced down at the notifications. 23 missed calls. 23 unread text messages. 23 new emails. “What is it about 23?”

“What?”

I pointed at my phone. “23 across the board. And when I looked at the time, it was 23:23. Plus, I have 23 zits!”

Donna raised an eyebrow. “Don’t you know? It’s the angel number. Supposed to mean spiritual growth and enlightenment. I think the universe is trying to tell you something.”

“Oh, I know,” I said, flopping back down on the bed and dropping the phone. “It’s telling me I suck at everything. I can’t even write anymore. And that’s the only thing I’ve ever been good at.”

“Check your email.”

It seemed pointless, but I picked up the phone and tapped on the mail icon. I scrolled through a few newsletters and promotional emails from companies that wanted me to buy overpriced beauty products or underwear. Then I saw my agent’s name and clicked on it.

“Oh my god!” I looked up at Donna, my heart beating too fast. “I’ve been nominated for an award. Or, my book has. The last one. Stumped.”

“That’s awesome!” She grinned at me. “And very deserved. That book is so good!”

I tried to mirror her excitement, but couldn’t. “Maybe, but it is sure hasn’t sold well.”

“Cut it out.” Donna took the phone from me and read through the email. “You have amazing reviews and your first book has been a bestseller twice. They don’t give awards to hacks.”

“They haven’t given me the award yet,” I pointed out.

She passed the phone back to me, open to a different message this time. Also from my agent. “Are you sure?”

I scanned the email quickly. “I won?”

“You won. And they’re doing a whole new print run for the book. It’s gonna be the bestseller it always should have been.”

I jumped off the bed and made a dash to the bathroom. “I’ll be right back. Just going to shower. Then we can go.”

“Go where?” she called after me. “It’s almost midnight!”

“I don’t care,” I called back. “I just want to go somewhere to celebrate my new life!”