I don't actually like salmon. And who orders salmon at a restaurant known for the best damn pasta this side of Dublin?
Marcus smiles and rubs his thumb across my knuckles. “I can't believe you're mine,” he says, and part of me wonders why I should feel something, anything, other than a growing sense of dread.
What's my problem?
I know I can do this.
Can't I?
By the time we get back to the flat, it's nearly six. The sun hangs low over Ballyhock, painting everything gold and amber. It's beautiful and heartbreaking.
“I'll pick you up at nine,” Marcus says, idling at the curb. “That gives you three hours to finish packing. Should be plenty of time.”
“Marcus, I?—”
“Don't forget to pack light. You won't need most of those old clothes anyway. We'll go shopping next week, get you a proper wardrobe.” His smile is warm and affectionate. He wants to spoil me… I know he does. He does spoil me. But I can't help but feel hurt when he thinks I need new clothes.
I know I'm the worst. He loves me. He wants me to look my best, that's all.
Marcus drives away, and I'm left standing on the pavement, staring up at the building I've called home for six years. The flat where I stayed up late reading bylamplight, where I drank tea with my friends, and Lancelot curled up on my lap while I studied.
The flat I'm leaving tonight.
“Right then,” Mam says, appearing beside me with her spare key. “Let's get you sorted, shall we?”
The next two hours pass in a blur of packing tape and cardboard boxes. Mam flutters around, folding clothes I've already folded, reorganizing things I've already organized.
“This is exciting,” she keeps saying. “Your new life. Finally.”
Finally, as if my old life was something to escape from.
By half eight, most of my things are packed. Books in boxes. Clothes in suitcases. My small collection of jewelry is wrapped carefully in tissue paper. The framed photo of Da goes in last, nestled between sweaters.
Lancelot watches from the bed, his tail flicking.
“I'm sorry,” I whisper, scratching behind his ears. “I'll visit. I promise. Every week.”
He purrs, oblivious that this is goodbye. To Marcus, he's a nuisance, but the chubby tabby's been my most steady companion for years, and I'll miss him.
“I'll take good care of him,” Mam says softly from the doorway. “He'll be happy with me.”
But he won't be. Lancelot is my cat. He likes to be near me, follows me from room to room, and meows at the door when I come home. He'll think I've abandoned him.
“I should finish up,” I say, my voice thick. “Marcus will be here soon.”
Mam nods and slips out, closing the door behind her.
I stand in the middle of my nearly empty room, surrounded by boxes and bags, and try to breathe through the tightness in my chest.
This is what I want. This is what's best.
Isn't it?
I walk to the window, pushing it open to let in the cool evening air. The city sprawls before me, lights beginning to flicker on as dusk settles. Somewhere out there, Marcus is on his way. In thirty minutes, he'll be here in his beautiful car with staff to help carry my things.
And my life as I know it will end.
The breeze picks up, sudden and sharp, making me shiver. Above me, clouds slide across the sky, thick and dark. They swallow the moon whole, plunging the street below into shadow.
