Elijah bailed on our road trip the night before our planned departure, so that traumatic night under the influence of cannabis was the last I saw him.
I drove for 14 hours up Interstate 5, listening to episode after episode of the Modern Love podcast. By the time I crossed the border into Washington, Elijah was only a fading figure in my rearview mirror.
Our iMessage conversations dwindled to radio silence and, after awhile, I wasn’t bothered. I missed the idea of Elijah—the man I thought he was—but I realized that I didn’t really miss him or the experiences I had had with him.
And besides, Buenos Aires was waiting for me.
