Page 7 of Last Resort

How at first his words were composed, even, but biting. How I thought he just needed time to warm up to the idea. Hell, I even invited him to come to the Virgin Islands with me and work remotely. But the more I insisted I was excited for the opportunity, the angrier he became. His fist through the drywall, his insults degrading, and his fury and pettiness undeniable.

And then the cool calm afterwards.

“You will never be anything without me, Sutton.” His too calm demeanor is unsettling. “We both know that. But go ahead and go if you’re so dead set on experiencing failure. Just remember we have dinner with my boss next Friday. So make sure you’re back by then because it won’t be pretty for you if you embarrass me.”

“We’re over, Clint,” I repeat for what feels like the tenth time in as many minutes. How did I not hear these veiled threats before? Why have I always complied instead of standing up to him?

His smile is mocking. The lift of an eyebrow a challenge to how serious my words are.

My only response is to continue shoving whatever is within reach into my overnight bag. I’m too flustered, too hurt, to properly pack what I really need, but I can’t hesitate. If I do, he’ll pounce, with the intention to show that I don’t mean what I said.

That we’re not really over.

“You’ll be back. There’s no way you’ll ever survive on your own without me holding your hand and fixing your constant mistakes.” He looks me up and down and gives a disgusted shake of his head. “But be prepared to grovel.” He chuckles. “There’s a price to pay for realizing I’m the greatest thing that’s ever happened to you.”

“It was like for the first time I could see his actions clearly, I could really hear his words, but it was almost as if I was so far removed from the emotion in the moment, that I could see what you’ve been seeing all along,” I finally say with a shake of my head. “His need for control. His need to make me less than. His need for me to fit in a box for his use only.”

She just squeezes my hand and nods where we sit side by side on her couch. “So you left.”

I nod. “I told him it was over. That we were done and”—I shrug— “I packed a few bags, drove around for a while, and then ended up here.”

“And how do you feel now that you’ve had some time to think?”

I twist my lips and try to summon any emotion. I should feel something, right? I should want to scream and yell and punch something after breaking up with a man I’ve been with for two years, but I don’t feel anything other than exhaustion. Simple and utter exhaustion.

Actually, that’s a lie.

I can pinpoint one and only one emotion.

“Relief.” I look at my best friend and give a half-hearted smile. “I feel absolute relief, and nothing more.”

“Then I guess that tells you all you need to know.”

And it does.

I’m sure at some point I’ll grieve the loss of something that used to be my sole focus. The loss of what? I’m not one hundred percent sure because the good memories have been so few and far between these last two years that I struggle to recall one that didn’t result in me either giving up on something for him or biting my tongue for one reason or another.

I sink into the couch, lean my head back, and close my eyes to take in the moment.

A moment I’ve known was coming for some time but haven’t had the courage to act on.

One thing is certain, I obviously disconnected from Clint long before today. Because my nonchalance isn’t shock. Rather it’s me doing something I know I should have done a long time ago. I read once that women leave relationships emotionally way before they leave physically. And I just proved that theory.

This is me reclaiming me again.

I did it.

I finally did it.

And now I already hate myself for taking so long to get here.

Fifteen Hours Ago

I stand at the bathroom doorway and watch Lizzy fuss with putting on her fake lashes. Her makeup is flawless, her hair stunning, and the tight, sparkly dress she’ll be putting on any minute hangs in the corner. Its sequins create prisms of light all over the room.

“They look like a nightmare to put on,” I murmur, pointing at the lashes between her fingertips.

“You get the hang of it when you do it enough.” She turns and tugs on my hand to pull me into her space. “Let me put some on you.”