I stall on the threshold, ambushed by the air inside. Sandalwood. Nevin. It takes one breath of his cologne to yank me straight back into the suffocating reality of living with him.
A fetid sinkhole opens in my stomach as I enter.
Everything is the same. The hole in the wall. The fugly leather sofa. The orchid I kept alive for four months. And why wouldn’t it be? Nothing has happened, at least nothing out of the ordinary. Only a regular life-threatening break-up.
In the centre of the lounge, there’s a pile.
My things. Clothes tangled with shoes, toiletries spilling from a split cosmetics bag, books with bent spines. Three pairs of pointe shoes thrown carelessly on top, ribbons twisted. The ones I wanted to break in for the role of Marzipan. He piled everything I own and left it for me to find. A performance. He’s directing the scene like a dramatic play.
Scottie’s hand lands on my shoulder, and the soft gesture settles me into the present.
‘Bin bags are in the kitchen.’ My tone drops into a thin, defensive monotone. ‘Under the sink.’
‘Ava, you don’t have to?—’
‘Just get them. Please?’
He goes rummaging while I stand facing the debris.
So this is what’s left of my life.
I don’t waste time wallowing. I start sorting, making smaller heaps.
Scottie returns with a roll of bags without any comment on the carnage and helps to pack up the mess.
The clock in my head ticks, and every sound cranks up the adrenaline. But my hands are methodical, because I demand it of them. This is my body, I’m the boss. So I treat the panic like stage fright – breathe against the nausea and hit the marks.
Books. Jumpers. The red dress I wore to the cursed wedding where I met Nevin… I shove it into bags. My hairbrush. The charger for my laptop. Until it’s all packed away.
‘That’s it, then.’ I cross to the worktop – flawless white quartz – and let my keys clatter beside the fruit bowl.
A full stop after a sentence that should have ended months ago. But when the metal leaves my fingertips, something unclenches in my chest.
It’s over and done with.
It takes a few seconds for my nervous system to get the memo.
‘Anything else, Marzipan?’ Scottie brushes a strand of hair behind my ear.
‘No.’ I scan the place one more time. Every surface a potential crime scene. Each memory tainted. ‘There’s nothing else here that’s mine. Nothing that’s worth keeping. And we already took the coffee machine.’
‘Good. Because walking back in here took some serious guts. Come on.’
We grab the bags and leave. The door clicks shut behind us.
* * *
Scottie and Finn’s flat share in Duncraig is habitable chaos. The communal areas are what you’d expect from two rugby lads in their twenties: trainers scattered in the hall, a tower of protein tubs on the kitchen worktop next to a grease-spotted stack of foil takeaway trays, a gaming console tangled with charger cables.
‘Finn’s at the event,’ Scottie says, dropping half of my bags inside the door. ‘Won’t be back for a while.’
Scottie’s room is at the end of the corridor. He opens the door. ‘Come in.’
It’s neat. Unexpectedly, obsessively neat. The bed is made. No hospital corners, but close.
‘You can unpack wherever.’
‘Scottie?’
