He sets the empty glass in the sink and stalks back down the hallway. His bedroom door closes with a loud thump.
I hide my smile in my smoothie. When I head to the shower later, I notice he's already left. In my head, I'd planned to help him carry his bag downstairs since he shouldn't risk his shoulder. But I guess I didn't mention that plan.
If I had, he probably would've accused me of smothering him.
At noon I climb out of an Uber in front of Enzo's house. My house, once upon a delusional time. The brick still gleams like money. The glossy red front door still sticks on the bottom hinge. I know it will smell like smoke and cologne before I even step inside. That scent used to make me feel safe. Now it just makes my stomach turn.
I'm here to pick up the last of my things. Clothes in the back of the closet. Books from what used to be my office before Enzo turned it into a home gym. The framed photo of my mom I couldn't look at during the final months of her life.
I should've texted first. Or better yet, coordinated a time when he'd be gone. Part of me wanted to walk in here and prove I could walk back out without falling apart.
The door swings open before I can knock.
Enzo stands there shirtless in gray sweatpants. His hair is artfully messy in that way that probably took twenty minutes to perfect. Behind him, three women drape across the leather couch like trophies. One of them is wearing what looks like Enzo's shirt and nothing else.
Classy.
His grin is knife-sharp. "Scout. Didn't know you were coming by. You should've texted. I would've told the girls to put pants on."
“Not on my account.” My pulse spikes but I keep my face neutral. "I'm just here for my things."
"Things," he echoes, leaning against the doorframe. His eyes drag over me like I'm inventory. "Funny. I always thought you wanted me, not things."
"Don't flatter yourself." I push past him into the foyer.
He follows close enough that I can feel him at my back. His voice drips acid. "You really think you're going to find better? You'll just latch onto some other guy. Fix his meals. Wash his socks. Take notes on how he likes his shirts folded. You're not a girlfriend, Scout. You're staff."
I stop in the middle of the living room, hands clenched. The women on the couch watch us with bored interest, like we're a reality show they've seen twelve times. I hate this. I hate all of it.
The second I pushed back on Enzo's flirting, the moment I had a problem with his parade of side pieces, he lost interest in me. He started nitpicking everything I did. I should've seen it coming the first time I found someone else's lipstick on his collar.
"I'm dating Silas," I blurt out.
My eyes widen the second it leaves my mouth. Enzo makes me stupid. If I could snatch the words back and stuff them down my throat, I would.
His grin dies. Something ugly flashes in his eyes. "I knew it."
My stomach drops. He couldn't know. I just made it up. But the flash of fury on his face feels like victory anyway. Petty and small but victory nonetheless.
"Figures you have to entice him with pussy just to get his attention," he sneers, circling closer. "Big, broken bastard like him. You probably think he needs you just like I did. Newsflash, Scout. You didn't save me. You just made it easier to cheat."
My throat tightens. I force words through it. "You couldn't keep it in your pants if your life depended on it."
"Better than being boring." He moves closer, voice dropping to something soft and cruel. "How long are you going to keep riding my coattails? You still work the job I got you. You're still living off my connections. You're nothing without me."
Tears threaten but I blink them back. Fury cuts through the hurt, sharp and clean. "Throw the rest of my stuff out. I don't want it."
I grab the two boxes of stuff he’s got ready for me and shove past him toward the door.
He calls after me, laughter sharp and mean. "You'll come crawling back when that machine of a man freezes you out. It's what you do. You're forgettable, Scout."
My chest seizes but I don't cry. Not here. Not for him. I spin on my heel at the door and spit the words at him.
"Go fuck yourself, Enzo."
I slam the door behind me. My hands shake so hard I can barely pull out my phone to call an Uber. I stand on the curb clutching the boxes while trying not to cry in front of Enzo's building.
The driver shows up seven minutes later and loads the boxes without asking questions.
