This time I don’t hold back.
I sidestep, letting his momentum carry him forward, then catch him by the back of his shirt. In one fluid motion, I pivot and take him to the ground, using his own weight against him. My knee presses lightly between his shoulder blades—enough to immobilize, not to hurt.
“You fucked up, and you hurt her,” I whisper in his ear. “And I don’t take it lightly when people hurt her.” No one’s going to hurt her ever again. “So, touch her, and I’ll break your neck, understand?”
He struggles beneath me, but there’s no leverage to be found. “I should call the cops on you!”
“Maybe. But first, you leave.”
When I’m confident he won’t take another swing, I stand and haul him to his feet, but he doesn’t seem to move as quickly as I want him to. And I’m done with him. “Where is your stuff?”
“What?”
“Your clothes. Your shit. Where?”
He points reluctantly to the full laundry basket in the bathroom.
I keep one hand firmly on his shoulder as I guide him there, opening the lid to find a collection of wrinkled clothes.
“Get your suitcase,” I tell him.
“Get it yourself,” he snaps.
I squeeze his shoulder just enough to remind him of our strength differential. “Suitcase. Now.”
Cursing under his breath, he pulls down a duffle bag from the shelf and throws it at my feet. I don’t flinch.
“Pack it,” I instruct.
“This is insane. You can’t just?—”
“Pack. It.” Each word drops like a stone.
Under my watchful eye, he stuffs clothing into the bag—T-shirts, jeans, underwear that should have been washed days ago. Well, now he can wash his own shit.
“Toothbrush,” I remind him. “Razor. Deodorant if you have.”
“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, but opens a drawer.
While he finishes packing, I keep myself between him and the bedroom door. I can hear Jenna’s muffled crying from within, and each sob is like a stick to the ribs. I’ve only known her for months now, but something about her reminds me of the determined women in my hometown who held everything together while appearing to bend under the weight. Women like my mother, who never broke no matter how hard life pressed down.
When Matthew’s bag is full, I zip it closed and hand it to him. “Time to go.”
“I need to talk to Jenna,” he says, suddenly shifting tactics, his voice softening. “Just let me apologize. We can work this out.”
“Nyet.” The Russian slips out before I can catch it. “Not today. Maybe never. Her choice, not yours.”
“You don’t understand—we’ve been together for years?—”
“And now you are not anymore.” I take his arm firmly and guide him toward the front door. “Relationships end when respect and love ends.”
“You can’t do this!” He digs in his heels at the threshold. “You don’t have the right!”
“But I have an obligation to basic human decency.” I push the bag into his chest. “Now take your keys out of your pocket.”
His face twists in confusion. “What?”
“Apartment keys. Take them out.”
