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ADDISON
SIX WEEKS LATER…
I stretch the tape across the long opening, cut it to length, and then press down to seal it to the box. I add one more strip for good measure, then take a deep breath and look around the living room. My home for the past three years.
Vera is already gone. I had rent-by-the-hour movers throw that bitch on the curb the second I got home from Colorado, and it had already disappeared when I went out for a run just two hours later. The next day, I rented out a storage unit for the dining room table.
Afterward, I returned home, emotionally drained, and called my father. He sent me to voicemail.
Luckily, Ethan didn’t come home that night, so I was able to lick my wounds in peace, collapsing onto the guest bed and sobbing for hours. The next day, I packed up the necessities and moved into Olivia’s apartment.
She had planned a month-long trip to Europe with her parents and had already left, so the place was quiet. Too quiet. It took all of an hour for the silence echoing against the walls to swallow me whole.
I paced and cried and screamed, then spent the next four weeks on Olivia’s couch, nursing my heartbreak, eating junk food, and binging on wine and Grey’s Anatomy. Fourteen seasons of drama, deaths, and tears is one hell of a way to get over an ex, though I’m not sure how many of those tears were spilled over Ethan and how many were only for the future I had lost.
I had no obligations and no one to check in on me, which had only fueled my depression further. Whenever Olivia called, I put on a sunshine voice and pretended like all was well in the world, hanging up only to reassure Netflix I was still watching.
On the day before she came home from Europe, I cleaned the house from top to bottom, showered, and got an expensive haircut at my favorite salon. My pity party was over.
In the two weeks since, I’ve been slowly packing up and donating all of my and Ethan’s shared belongings, even down to the cheesy ‘his’ and ‘hers’ towels. I wanted nothing that reminded me of our time together, and as bitter as it may be, I didn’t want him to have them either.
Now, the condo’s hollow, and so am I.
I don’t have long to dwell on my heartbreak before Ethan abruptly walks through the front door. I’m surprised to see him, but I try not to show it. The less of a reaction I can give him, the better.
“Wow, I wasn’t even sure you were still living here,” I say, picking at the large roll of tape in my hand. Every time I’ve come over, the condo has looked the same—no dirty dishes in the sink, no dirty clothes in the laundry room, bed made. Hell, Ethan doesn’t even know how to make a bed, so that told me something was going on.
His stare is hard, and I do my best not to cower under it. “I’ve been around,” he says. “I have no plans to leave the condo.”
“Well, of course not. My father already paid for it.”
During our first month apart, I went back and forth between my anger and indifference, but one thing I haven’t felt for him is sadness. I’m sad I wasted eight years on him, and I’m sad I have almost no direction on how I want to move forward with my life. I’m sad that I almost married this man, and now I don’t even miss him.
But I’m not sad he’s no longer mine.
“Is that the last one?” he asks, throwing his suitcase onto the kitchen island and scowling my way. “You’ve cleaned me out. I can’t imagine what else you could possibly take.”
I open my mouth to speak, but he continues.
“Oh, wait!” He snaps his fingers in the air, then stalks toward me, anger rolling off him. “There are a few rolls of toilet paper in the bathroom you wouldn’t want to leave behind.”
I raise my hand to his chest, plastering a sugar-sweet smile onto my face. My mother always said to kill ’em with kindness.
“You might need those, Ethan,” I say, bitterness dripping from my words like thick honey. “We both know how full of shit you are.”
I pat his chest, then lean down to grab my keys, place them onto the box, and carry it to the door. I say a silent prayer that he doesn’t say anything else to me. I don’t want to fight. Anger does nothing but poison the person carrying it around, and after drowning in my emotions for the past six weeks, I have to let that shit go.
When I get to the front door, I use my body to hold the box against the wall so I can open the door and then again so I can shut it, silently cursing Ethan for not even bothering to help.
When I turn back toward the hallway, there’s Becky in all her skanky glory, standing awkwardly in her doorway. My eyes are immediately drawn to the bright red couch behind her.
Vera is in her living room, and Ethan’s ridiculous green tennis shoes are beside her.
Is that where he’s been? I’m not even the least bit surprised that they would stoop this low. I narrow my eyes on Becky and her conniving smile while she crosses her arms in front of her.
My chin threatens to wobble, so I raise it a notch higher. I refuse to give her the satisfaction of getting a reaction out of me. It’s a couch—a really beautiful and wonderful couch—but a fucking couch all the same. I’ve lost worse in my life.
I walk up to her slowly, registering the slip of her smile and enjoying the sharp feel of satisfaction that comes with it.
