“I’m serious.” My hands are shaking but my voice isn’t. “Pack a bag and go to… wherever she is. Or your buddy’s place. I don’t care. But you don’t get to stay here tonight. Not after this.”
He crosses his arms over his chest. “This is my house too.”
Rage flares, hot and sharp. “My name is the only one on the mortgage. My paycheck covers every bill that’s actually paid. You’ve been between jobs for eight months, so forgive me if I don’t feel generous about supporting you one second longer.”
His face hardens. “Low blow.”
“You slept with someone else in our home,” I state my voice cracking. “That’s the low blow. You brought another woman in my sanctuary. This is self-respect.” I don’t recognize myself anymore. I’ve been swallowing things down for so long, smoothing, fixing, apologizing for both of us. Now the words are just spilling out, sharp and clear, and part of me is terrified but another part feels…released, almost clean.
“Holley, be reasonable?—”
“I am being reasonable,” I state. “Reasonable is not throwing that bottle at your head.” I nod at the liquor bag on the table. “Reasonable is not screaming until the neighbors call the cops. Reasonable is telling you to pack a bag and leave before I change my mind.”
He studies me like he’s trying to decide if I’m bluffing.
“I’ll sleep on the couch,” he tries.
“No. I’m done sharing space with you.”
“Come on, baby, we can?—”
“Do not call me that.” The word feels like acid now. “Go. Get your stuff for tonight. I’ll give you a window tomorrow to come pack for the long term. Tonight figure out where you’re staying because it won’t be here. After that, we talk about lawyers.”
He flinches. “Lawyers?”
“What did you think was going to happen here?” I ask, my voice dropping. “You break my trust and we… what? Hug it out?”
His shoulders slump. For a second, some real emotion flickers through the anger—fear, maybe. Regret, probably not. But it’s too late. I’m too tired. I think of the earring under the couch, of all the late nights, the times I believed him when he lied.
“Fine,” he mutters finally, and looks away. “Fine. I’ll… I’ll go.”
He stomps down the hallway, and I hear drawers yanked open, the bang of the closet door, the drag of his suitcase wheels. My legs feel like they’re made of wet sand. I sink onto the edge of the couch, staring straight ahead.
The TV is still paused on some home renovation show. A couple beams at each other while they talk about knocking down walls and building their dream kitchen. I let out a shaky, hysterical little laugh. Yeah. Good luck, guys.
He reappears with his suitcase and a duffel bag. He avoids my eyes. “I’ll… I’ll come get the rest of my stuff this weekend.”
“I’ll give you a window tomorrow, you get it tomorrow” I command. “I’ll leave a key under the mat because I will be changing the locks.”
He hesitates. “So that’s it? You’re just… done?”
I look at him. Really look. At all the little lies stitched into his face. At the man who let me carry everything and then blamed me for being tired.
“I’m done letting you treat me like I’m disposable,” I say softly. “That’s what I’m done with.”
He swallows. For a second, I think he might cry. He doesn’t. He just nods, jaw clenched, and opens the door.
Cold air hits the bare skin of my arms. It hits like an extra cold winter storm even if the sun shines out front.
He pauses in the doorway. “You’re going to regret this.”
Maybe I will. Maybe I won’t. Right now, I can only feel the throbbing ache in my chest and the hollow buzzing in my ears and the faint, strange relief under all of it, like a splinter finally being pulled free.
“Maybe,” I say, and close my hand around the earring until it hurts. “But I won’t regret not sharing a bed with a liar.”
He shakes his head, mutters something under his breath I can’t hear, and then he’s gone. The door shuts behind him with a soft click that sounds louder than any slammed door.
For a long time, I don’t move.
