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“How are you? Is everything okay, what’s wrong? What are you doing here? Where’s Remi? How’s Remi? What’s wrong?” I babble, not giving her a chance to actually answer one question before I ramble off another.
“If you let the poor girl breathe, Mr. Williams, maybe she’d be able to tell you,” Mrs. Jones reprimands me, coming up behind us. “Good to see you, Deborah,” she smiles, then asks if we need anything before disappearing again.
“Sorry,” I say sheepishly, grinning from ear to ear.
“It’s okay,” Deb says with an almost silent laugh. She smiles at me, but it slips from her face before I even have a chance to process its arrival. I motion her further into the apartment, but she doesn’t move any further than that required to allow her to shut the door. My heart bursts from my chest as a wave of déjà vu crashes over me.
Not again. I can’t handle being broken up with twice.
“What’s wrong?” I ask, no longer happy to see her.
“I’m here to get Remi’s things,” she says, tilting her chin away and looking at the floor, her shoulders lifted like she’s expecting to be struck. “I’ll get everything boxed, then if it’s okay with you, the movers will be here this afternoon to collect them.”
I reflexively take a step back, my hand reaching out for something to hold me upright.
“What?” I demand, laughing through the word, though it’s by far the least funny thing I’ve ever heard. “You’re kidding.”
Her tongue darts out to lick her lips, then her teeth shred her bottom lip. It’s already busted and looks like it’s been bleeding relatively recently. Our drama has spread to the point where it’s causing Deb physical harm. Her face flushes and pales, and I’d be worried about her swooning if I weren’t trying desperately to keep my own feet underneath me.
“I’ve…ah...I’ve come to collect his things,” she repeats haltingly. Painfully. Every word breaks like glass, shattering across the marble floor. She looks me in the eye, and her face cracks, the facade of a neutral party falling away to show the hurt on her features. Whether it’s hurt for me or hurt for her boss, or if she has enough for all of us, I don’t dare to ask.
“No,” I tell her, shaking my head. “Absolutely fucking not!”
I yank my phone from my pocket, dialing Remi’s number, but of course, it goes straight to voice mail. I don’t bother leaving a message.
“Get him on the phone,” I snap at Deb, pointing my finger into her face, even though she doesn’t deserve it. This isn’t her fault. None of this is her fault. The fucking coward sent his assistant in his place to erase himself from our home. “Now,” I demand when she doesn’t immediately react. “Otherwise, he can go through the courts to get his shit back. Or buy new clothes, I don’t fucking care which. But my daddy always said possession was nine-tenths of the law, and right now, I own what he wants. The least he could do is to be man enough to talk to me.”
“I’m sorry,” she whispers, her voice cracking on the words.
“It’s not your fault,” I assure her, before shoving my hands through my hair, trying to calm my anger to a reasonable level. It isn’t only rage bubbling under the surface. Fear coats me like a second skin. I’m terrified that he’s trying to sanitize himself from our lives, and if he succeeds, I’ll never fucking see him again.
“Remi,” Deb says into her phone, her voice hitching on the word. Mrs. Jones has made herself scarce, and I wish she were here, if only to offer some support to poor Deb, now horribly stuck in the middle. Lord knows I’m not in a place to provide her with any words of comfort. “Justin wants to talk to you.”
She’s silent for a minute, listening to her boss on the other line.
“I know,” she replies. Soothingly. Consolingly. “But it’ll be easier if you just do it. He says if he doesn’t talk to you first, then you can take it up with the courts.” Her face crunches up, and then she hands me her phone. I pivot on my heel and march away from the entryway, taking a left in the hallway before closing myself behind the closest door and looking into the office I never use with unseeing eyes.
I can hear him breathing, ragged and hard.
“Are you okay?” I ask him, and he huffs into my ear.
“Why is that always the first thing you ask me?”
Because I love you, you idiot.
“I’m worried about you,” I tell him honestly, not wanting to overwhelm him with declarations of devotion that he obviously doesn’t want to hear.
“I’m fine,” he lies, the words hollow and bare.
“Yeah, okay,” I reply sarcastically before I have a chance to check my tone. He laughs, though—rough and haunted as it is—and I smile at the way I’m sure he rolls his eyes. I let the silence build between us, determined not to be the first to crack.
I do anyway.
“What did you have for dinner last night? Have you been eating?”
“Yes,” he replies, and I can hear him lick his lips through the speaker. “These canvas bags filled with casseroles and pasta dishes keep appearing in front of my door every few days, packed in cold-hot bags and covered with ice packs. You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you?”
Rhetorical question. Just because Remi’s not eating with us doesn’t mean that Julia isn’t determined to ensure he eats more than takeout. It’s a relief to know that he’s using the food she brings him and not simply throwing it away on principle.
