Chapter 43
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
“He what ?”
Angie crosses her arms. Her purple scrubs tug tight across her generous chest. “He turned in his resignation a week ago. Said it was becoming a conflict of interest.”
An incredulous laugh slips from my lips, and I sink back onto the made-up bed. “What exactly does that mean?” I laugh again, more air than anything else. “What situations would make something a conflict of interest?”
She purses her lips. Her smile still shows through. “Any situation where he stands to gain something personal from a situation that comes up in his professional life. A vested interest beyond the regular job description.”
I nod absently, watching the dust dance in front of my eyes. “Struggling to see the issue, to be honest.”
“When your heart’s on the line,” she says simply, “you tend to get sloppy.”
“His heart’s not on the line.” That was the entire problem.
She hmm s. “Okay. Sure.” She sees herself out, but I’m still on the bed, staring at nothing. This doesn’t make sense.
Adam is the most selfless person I know. He’s the one who taught me that if you’re required to give up pieces of yourself for love, it isn’t love at all. Love is supposed to make you more yourself, not less.
That’s exactly what I asked him to do, though, isn’t it? I begged him to leave his carefully crafted life behind just to try to fit him into mine. I saw it as our only option, because that’s how I’ve always operated. By myself, considering no one’s feelings but my own. All or nothing. My way or no way.
I look at the Christmas tree, yet another selfless gesture he made while expecting nothing in return. From my seated position, I notice something new tucked under the lowest branches. There’s a small box, wrapped in red-and-green-striped paper. I pull it out. My name is on the tag, in Adam’s messy all-caps scrawl. The back reads:
ELLE,
WAS SAVING THIS FOR CHRISTMAS, BUT IT TURNS OUT WE DON’T HAVE THAT LONG. HOPEFULLY THIS ONE WON’T GIVE YOU BPA POISONING. CREAMER’S IN THE FRIDGE.
I’M SORRY.
LOVE, ADAM
I rip the paper, the box falling into my trembling hands.
It’s a butterfly mug, exactly like the one I’ve used since I was seven. Except this one is ceramic, kiln-fired pottery. The coloring is similar, cartoonish purple and pink. The handle is wing shaped. This was handmade, with love, care, and attention. I flip it over, looking for a brand or artist’s name.
Instead, there are three little C s carved into the base.
Clutching it to my heart alongside Adam’s note, I try not to fall apart.
It’s too late for that, though. I knew I fell a while ago.
I jump up, tearing into the packages on the dresser, searching for the right one. I break two nails and slice my thumb on the cardboard. When I find what I’m looking for, I rip the Christmas tree from the nightstand, the cord dancing around my ankles as I shoot for the front door.
Lovie is standing beside it, her car keys waiting in her palm.