Skye cuts me off with a look. “That room’s already yours. You’re just coming home to it.”
Hot tears press behind my eyes, but I blink them away.
“It’s weird,” I admit. “Everything’s lining up. Like God or theuniverse or whatever was just waiting for me to finally stop stalling.”
Skye studies me for a second. “Are you ready?”
I shrug, but the motion feels too big and too small all at once. “Yes? No? I don’t know. But I know I can’t stay. It doesn’t matter if I’m ready or not. I made my decision. I told my mother. I’m not changing my mind.”
She doesn’t push. Just nods and waits for me to sort through the back-and-forth in my head.
“I need your help,” I say after a beat. “On the day. When I leave. I don’t want to do it alone.”
“You won’t,” she says, shaking her head. “I’ll take off work, drive to Moraine the night before and crash here, head to your place in the morning and help load what fits. We’ll ghost out like pros.”
“I’m not taking much,” I tell her. “Only what fits in our cars. He can have the rest.”
“Anything you’ll miss?”
I shake my head. “Not enough to fight for. I just need my clothes, my books, a few personal items. Everything sentimental is at my parents’ house, not mine.”
She grabs her phone. “Alright, checklist time.”
This side of Skye always amazes me. As off-the-wall and fly-by-the-seat-of-her-pants as this woman might seem, Skye never fails to have a plan and make things happen. That’s what she does when shit hits the fan and everything feels like it might float off the edge of the world.
“Okay,” she murmurs, typing on her phone as she speaks. “Passport, social, birth certificate?”
I nod. “Fireproof folder. Already packed.”
“Laptop?”
“With me. Always.”
“Jewelry?”
“Figured I’d leave my wedding rings on top of the goodbyeletter on the kitchen counter? Other than that, I’ll have my few precious items in my purse. Everything else can stay behind.”
“Forwarding your mail to my place?”
“If you don’t mind.”
“Duh. You’ll be living there. Need a burner?”
I blink. “A what?”
“In case he shuts your phone off or won’t stop calling. I’ll grab you a prepaid one just in case.”
My stomach flips. “I’m still on my parents’ phone plan so he can’t shut it off. But you think it’ll come to that? Like, he won’t stop calling me?”
Her tone softens. “I think we’re not leaving anything to chance.”
She keeps going—passwords, account logins, prescriptions, documents. I nod and answer, but somewhere in the middle of it all, I drift.
I’m imagining my SUV packed to the roof with boxes of the life I’m shedding. I’m imagining Chase coming home to an empty house. Finding my letter on the counter. Throwing my rings across the room in a fit of rage. Slamming cabinets and doors searching for alcohol that won’t be in the house. Will he shatter the framed photos of us? Throw a lamp into the wall? Will he sit at our dining room table with his head in his hands and mourn my absence? Will he even care?
A tear slips onto the hand propping up my face at the edge of the couch, right as Skye nudges my foot.
“Hey. You’re not weak for being sad,” she says, voice low. “Even when it’s the right thing. Especially then.”
