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He takes the box from me. Holds it to his chest as he grabs a suitcase and follows me up the stairs.
Upstairs is the same. Sleek hardwood, white walls, framed photographs.
Half of them missing.
The ones of my parents' wedding, their honeymoon, the vacation when Allison was pregnant. Even the pictures of them at notable events in my life.
It's just me. My first day of school, my first swim meet, my kindergarten talent show.
Vacations, school events, the awful year of soccer (anything but running).
The awkward middle school pics. Homecoming dance. Daisy as my date. Then, later the scrubs, as Oliver called them.
My natural hair at my shoulders.
The time I cut it really short.
All the different colors I tried. Dark brown (not my look), jet black (even worse), bright red (nope), platinum blonde (not bad).
My first day of college. My hair already short. My smile wide and authentic.
Did they know they were separating then?
Were they pretending for my sake? Or was Divya as clueless as I was?
I can't say I keep tabs on my parents' love life. Who does? But I notice when they're happy. When they're loving. When they're going on regular dates or fighting nonstop.
They haven't been tense lately. They haven't been arguing about little things. Or debating big ideas.
They've just been… quiet.
Working.
Allison at her company. Divya on her cooking.
Usually, she makes traditional Indian dishes. The recipes her mother taught her. But the last year or two, she's been expanding. Trying all sorts of cuisines and styles.
Filling the empty hours.
Just like Oliver.
I table the thought as I step into my room. It looks the same as it did this time yesterday. Before they sat me down and delivered the news. Before my family fell apart.
Posters of amazing female musicians—Lorde, Billie Eilish, Halsey, Kimbra. Bright pink comforter. Black desk. Stacks of text books. Messy makeup.
Underwear sitting on the ground. Waiting to be sorted.
Shit.
"Don't look at that." I reach out to cover Oliver's eyes.
He pushes my hand away. "I've seen you in less."
His gaze moves over the pile. From the worn cotton to the new mesh.
His eyes stop on a sheer black bodysuit.
They flit to me. Then back to the pile.
It's quick. But his intent is still obvious. He's picturing me in the lingerie.
"I said don't look. Not tell me why you should look." I push him gently. "Turn around. While I pack it."
"You realize I'm here to help you?"
"Turn around while I pack it, please."
He does.
I pick up the suitcase. Lay it on the bed. Toss my underwear into it. Then my three best pairs of jeans, a cute denim skirt, a few plain tees, my favorite blouse, two casual dresses, two party dresses, another pair of Converse, gym clothes, tall boots, combat boots, heels.
Eventually, Oliver turns. Watches as I pack. "You want my biceps?"
My eyes flit to said biceps. He's in his usual arm-revealing get up—black t-shirt and black jeans. Tattoos on display.
God, those arms are sexy. I want them wrapped around my waist. Or covering my chest. Or maybe his hand on my throat—
"Luna? You invited me for help?" he asks.
"More… as a shield. But yeah, if you could pack all those textbooks." I motion to the stack on my desk. "That would help. Thank you." I grab my pajamas. Bras. Two swimsuits, one for practice and one for leisure.
He moves closer as he slips the textbooks into the suitcase. It's all one suitcase. The book is next to my panties. They're clean, but still…
He doesn't mention it. He finishes packing. Motions to the hallway. "Should I make coffee?"
"You just had one."
"Is that a no?"
"Sure, yeah. Thanks." I need a minute to myself. And if he's downstairs, he'll be the first to face the traitor. Win-win. Even if I want to ask why he's drinking so much coffee. Yeah, he loves coffee, but he doesn't love it this much. "I'll meet you down there."
"You can get that suitcase down the stairs okay?" He says it without a hint of condescension. All help. No superiority.
Even so, I don't like the implication. "You're right. I need my big, strong man to carry it for me."
"You asked for my help."
Right. I'm being a bitch. "Thanks. If you want to labor for me, you can. I'll meet you downstairs. Drink the coffee. Watch as you do my bidding."
He chuckles you would. Then he moves down the stairs.
I find my silver makeup bag. Gather the essentials. Then the non-essentials in a tote. My razor, soap, shampoo, dye, hair product.
Daisy has most of this stuff, but I don't want to smell like her.
I gather everything I can in the one suitcase and two bags, then I sit on my bed. Stare at the familiar walls.
My home for the last nineteen years.
The place that's supposed to be safe and comfortable.
This place that's supposed to belong to a happy family.
