“Done,” she says, as if we agreed to a business deal and not an exit strategy for my marriage.
A moment later, an alert comes through on my Venmo telling me that Lexi has sent a private cash payment. When I open it up, the only note is a little broken heart emoji. “You must have to do this a lot if there’s a system,” I say.
“We spend our time supporting our husbands and the team,” Lexi says. “Who’s going to support us but us?”
I vow right then to send back Lexi double whatever she’s lending me. “Thank you.”
“Anytime. Give me a call whenever you get a chance.” And we say our goodbyes as I toss my last item into my suitcase.
I’m almost to the doorway, suitcase in hand, when I feel the thump of my pendant against my sternum. It had felt so much like a burden when Brayden put it on me, but right now it’s hanging around my neck like my last piece of certainty. I unclasp it. Somehow, I feel more weighted down without it on. I hang on the jewelry stand. I pull out my debit card—Brayden’s debit card, really, the one he gave me to cover household expenses—and place it next to the jewelry stand.
I should leave a note, the way Asher did with me. I rip a piece of paper from myVictorianotebook. That notebook usually makes me feel organized but now I just feel like a mess.
I’m sorry.I crumple the page and toss it away.
I need to do this for both of us. For all of usAnother sheet in the trashcan.
The team knows.And another.
This isn’t a love letter. I might not be Brayden’s wife or Asher’s girlfriend, but I am my father’s daughter, and I know how to break a contract—a verbal contract, but a contract nonetheless.
I’ve failed to live up to the terms of our arrangement. Per our agreement, I believe we need to dissolve our marriage.
A few tears drop onto the page, making the ink bleed. Maybe Brayden will see those and know what they mean. Maybe he’ll simply file for a divorce. I won’t be around to find out.
I roll my suitcase down the hall to the back stairs. Carry it down one step at a time so that I don’t make noise. It’s heavy, but I’ve gotten stronger in the past few months. I get it to the kitchen side door. The hinges squeak as I open it. I freeze, listening for if Brayden wakes up and comes in here, sock-footed, to find me leaving him. When no sounds come from up the hall, I lift my suitcase out then re-lock the door. After a moment’s hesitation, I unclip my key from my keyring—the one with the painting Asher got me—then slide it under the door. I won’t need it, and I don’t want the temptation to come back.
I make another call from up the block—this one briefer than the one with Lexi—then summon an Uber. When he arrives, I tell the driver I can put the suitcase in the trunk myself.
Before, I waited for someone to rescue me: Brayden, then Asher.
Now I know the only person who can save me is myself.
Chapter Fifty-Two
Savannah
“Thankyou so much for letting me crash with you,” I say as I carry my suitcase into Forrest’s building.
He holds the door open for me. “You might change your mind once you see the place.”
“I’m sure it’ll be fine.” Though I’m less sure as we take a creaking elevator up to Forrest’s floor, as we roll my suitcase over thin carpeting toward his door. One of the hallway lights flickers overhead. A smudge forms in my vision.Oh no, not now.
Forrest must see my grimace because his smile tightens. “There’s not much worth stealing,” he says as he undoes the first of several locks.
Inside, his apartment has a central room—kitchen with clean, if chipped, orange Formica countertops; a living room with a slightly sagging sofa; a small dining room table with stacks of various journal articles arranged in neat piles. What did Brayden call them?Your favorite articles—the ones with the really tiny font.I push that thought down
There isn’t a speck of dust or a piece of furniture less than twenty years old, and as Forrest waves a sheepish hand around,I almost say,All the stuff I grew up with was old too, but that’s because most of it was antiques.
“Thank you,” I say again. I wish I’d brought something—food, wine, maybe a grocery gift card I could discretely leave in his kitchen.
Forrest stuffs his hands in his pockets. He’s about a foot shorter than Asher, narrower in the shoulders, and with a shaggy hair cut that I thought was an expensive haircut trying to look cheap but might actually be one he does himself. Still, something in the stubborn set of his shoulders reminds me of Asher, that same pride at having worked for what he has.
“My partner, uh, left last week,” he admits. “Apparently, I’m too busy to invest in the relationship in a way that feels equitable to both of our feelings or contributes in a meaningful way to our collaborative vision of the future.”
“What does that mean?”
“They thought I was spending too much time with Dr. Ghorbani. Also, they slept with their ex and wanted to make it my fault.” He sighs heavily.
