He’s not fighting for me. For us. Maybe the love in this relationship was one-sided the whole time.
He left his belongings that night, not taking any of it with him. Every time I looked at something of his, it was the same heartache of that night all over again. Last night, I took one of his shirts from the dirty hamper and held it tight to my body as I cried myself to sleep. It was then I knew I had to remove any trace of him from my home.
It was time to move forward. If he wasn’t going to fight for us, then I was done. Instead of going into work this morning, I picked up a box and started packing. Everything. I left no trace of him in my home. I even had Janet, my housekeeper, come in and do a deep clean when I was done. I didn’t even want his lingering scent here.
I knew he had meetings today. Malcolm hadn’t removed me from our joint calendar, so I knew what time he wouldn’t be in his apartment.
I didn’t waste a second taping the box up and driving to his place. Just in case something changed, I didn’t want to risk running into him. Seeing him, having a chance to touch him, I knew I would break and give in. We’d be right back in the same situation we were. Me wanting more and him wanting to hide me like a shameful secret.
When I told him I was done, I meant it. Now I need to pick up the pieces of my broken heart and move forward. Without him. It wasn’t how I saw my future, but now it's my reality.
I sat in his parking spot for five minutes, trying to convince myself to get out and place the box inside his apartment along with his key. The final thing to close the chapter in our lives. But, eventually I did it.
And came straight home and dropped onto the couch with a bottle of Tequila. Today and tonight I’m going to drinkmy sorrows away. Then tomorrow I’m placing Malcolm in the rearview mirror and moving forward with my life. At fifty-two, this isn’t what I envisioned myself doing.
I don’t know how long I’ve been sitting here, wallowing in sadness. Long enough for half the bottle to be gone when my phone buzzes.
Malcolm: Got the box. That’s how you wanted to say goodbye?
I wasn’t sure if he’d reach out. But he did. He’s wrong. That wasn’t me saying goodbye. We did that the other night when he couldn’t commit to me. No, today was about me letting go of the past. One that isn’t moving forward into my future.
The phone sits like a deadweight in my hand as I read his message over and over. I want to reply.
I don’t.
I hold firm.
Instead, I turn it off and toss it on the table as I lift the bottle to my mouth and take a large swallow. The clear liquid burns as it slides down my throat. But I don’t care. I welcome the pain. It’s a momentary reprieve from the ache in my heart.
The loss of the love of my life.
How am I going to move forward?
Bradley
I’d given up on hearing back from Foxy’s Rent-A-Date, and I didn’t want to bug Scout. He was going to put a word in for me, but with the accident, I didn’t know if it slipped his mind or if he had time to. He has a lot on his plate, with Jennifer’s death, now having Juniper, and working to get guardianship of her. I couldn’t add more to his plate, not when he was trying to help me.
I know the struggle of having the weight of the world over your head far too well. I wasn’t adding to his burden.
Letting out a sigh, I get the few bags of groceries from off the passenger seat and open my door. Slowly, I make my way up the driveway to the porch. I’m already dreading going inside to the quiet. To the memories. To the realization that I’m about to lose this home. The last tangible piece I have left of my family.
I’ve just put the frozen meals into the freezer when my phone vibrates in my pocket.
It’s not a call. There's nothing missed. It’s an email.
Odd. Probably just another reminder from the bank of my time slowly ticking away. The official start of the get your shit together to move out of the only home I’ve known for the majority of my life.
Opening the app, I see it’s not from the bank; it’s from Foxy’s. I take a few deep breaths. This can go either way. It can be good, and welcome to the business, or sorry, you weren’t the right fit for us.
“Okay Bradley, get your shit together. If this is a fuck off message, then you’ll just come up with another solution to getthe money,” I tell myself. Almost like my own little pep talk, because I don't have a back-up plan.
I take my time. Reading each line. My eyes go wide, and a smile spreads across my face.
“I got the fucking job! Fuck yeah!” I shout as I start jumping around the room like a madman. I pump my hand in the air just like every bad boy male main character in an eighties movie.
Opening my text app, I shoot off a quick message. I know he’s busy and I’m the last thing on his mind, but I want to thank him.
Me: Scout. I got the job, man. Thank you so much.
