My books.
The few personal items Iactuallycare about.
And more importantly, I need to close that chapter of my life.
Officially.
Permanently.
"You sure you don't want me to come?"
Gunnar's sitting on the edge of the bed, watching me get ready.
He looks better than he did two weeks ago—color back in his face, some of his strength returning—but he's still moving carefully.
Still wincing when he turns wrong.
Still weeks away from being cleared for anything physical.
"You're not cleared to lift boxes," I remind him.
"I could supervise."
"You could tear your stitches."
"They took the stitches out three days ago."
"You could tear your wound."
"It's healing fine."
"Gunnar." I turn to face him, hands on my hips. "You're not coming. Doctor Reynolds said no strenuous activity for at least another month. Carrying boxes counts as strenuous."
"I wouldn't carry boxes. I'd just?—"
"Hover menacingly?"
"I was going to say provide moral support."
"Hakon and Ulf are coming with me. They can hover menacinglyandcarry boxes." I cross to him, cup his face in my hands. "I'll be fine. It's just Trisha and Angela. They're annoying, not dangerous."
"They're toxic. And they've been texting you nonstop since you told them you were moving out."
He's not wrong.
My phone has been a constant stream of passive-aggressive messages for two weeks.
Can't believe you're really doing this.
Hope your new life is worth abandoning your real friends.
Don't come crying to us when he dumps you like all the others.
I stopped responding after the first day.
Blocked them yesterday when the messages got particularly vicious.
But that doesn't mean today is going to be easy.
