Chapter 10 #2
"Friends don't tear each other down," Ulf says. "Friends don't make each other feel worthless. Whatever you two are, it's not friends."
"Oh, please." Angela drains her mimosa. "We're the only friends Ingrid has. The only ones who stuck around when everyone else got tired of her drama."
"That's not—" I start.
"It is." Angela's eyes are hard. "You think anyone else would put up with you? With your issues? Your baggage? Your constant need for validation?"
"Gunnar does."
"Gunnar doesn't know you yet. Not really. Give it time. He'll figure out what you are eventually."
"And what's that?"
"A mess." She shrugs. "A broken, needy mess who's only good for one thing. And even that gets old after a while. Just ask Njal. Ask Bjorn. Ask anyone who's ever been stupid enough to think you were worth the effort."
The words should hurt.
A month ago, they would have.
A month ago, they would have sent me spiraling into self-doubt and self-hatred and every dark thought I've ever had about myself.
But that was before.
Before Gunnar.
Before I learned what real love looks like.
Before I realized that people like Trisha and Angela say cruel things because they're empty inside and need to fill that emptiness with other people's pain.
"You're wrong," I say quietly.
"About what?"
"About all of it. About me. About Gunnar. About what I'm worth." I take a breath. "I spent years believing the things you said about me. Believing I was broken. Believing I was too much. Believing no one would ever love me enough to stay."
"Because it's true—"
"It's not." My voice is stronger now. "It was never true. I just believed it because you kept saying it. Because it was easier to agree with you than to fight back. But I'm done agreeing. I'm done letting you make me feel small. And I'm done pretending we were ever really friends."
Trisha's face twists.
"You ungrateful bitch. After everything we did for you—"
"What did you do for me? Besides tear me down and make me feel worthless? Besides encourage every self-destructive impulse I had? Besides use me as a punching bag whenever you needed to feel better about your own pathetic lives?"
"How dare you—"
"I dare because it's true. And deep down, you know it.
" I step forward, and to my satisfaction, Trisha steps back.
"I'm leaving. I'm taking my stuff, and I'm walking out that door, and I'm never coming back.
And you can say whatever you want about me after I'm gone.
I don't care anymore. Your opinions don't matter to me. "
"You'll regret this," Angela hisses. "When Gunnar figures out what you really are—"
"He already knows what I am. He's known for years. And he loves me anyway. That's the difference between him and every guy I’ve ever been with. He sees me—really sees me—and he stays."
"For now."
"Forever." I smile. "But you wouldn't understand that. You've never had anyone love you enough to stay. And based on how you treat people, you never will."
Angela's face goes white.
Then red.
Then she throws her mimosa at me.
The glass shatters against the wall behind my head.
I flinch back, more from surprise than fear.
"What the fuck!" Ulf steps forward, putting himself between me and Angela.
"Get out!" Angela screams. "Get out of my house!"
"It's my house!" Trisha shouts. "And I want her gone too! Take your shit and leave!"
"Gladly." I grab the last of my bags. "Hakon, Ulf—let's go."
We push past them—Trisha pressed against the wall, Angela still seething—and head for the door.
We're almost there when Trisha grabs my arm.
"You're making a mistake," she says, voice low and vicious. "He's going to leave you. They always do. And when he does, don't come crawling back to us."
I look at her hand on my arm.
Then at her face.
"Let go of me."
"Not until you admit—"
I don't let her finish.
I yank my arm free, and when she grabs for me again, I shove her.
Hard.
She stumbles backward, catches herself on the wall.
"Don't touch me," I say. "Don't ever touch me again."
"You pushed me!"
"And I'll do it again if you put your hands on me." I'm shaking now—adrenaline and anger and something that feels like power. "We're done, Trisha. Done. You don't get to touch me. You don't get to talk to me. You don't get to exist in my life anymore."
"You're insane—"
"Maybe. But at least I'm free."
I turn and walk out the door.
Don't look back.
Don't hesitate.
Just walk straight to the van, throw my bags in the back, and climb into the seat.
Hakon and Ulf are right behind me.
They load the boxes quickly, silently, then pile into the front seats.
Hakon starts the engine.
Pulls away from the curb.
And just like that, it's over.
Two years of my life.
Gone in thirty minutes and a single shove.
"You okay?" Ulf asks, twisting around to look at me.
"I don't know." I stare out the window, watching Trisha's house disappear behind us. "I think so? That was... a lot."
"You handled it like a boss," Hakon says. "Seriously. I've seen men crumble under less pressure than that."
"I've never shoved anyone before."
"She had it coming. The second she grabbed you—" He shakes his head. "You showed restraint, honestly. I wanted to deck her."
"Same," Ulf agrees. "Those girls are toxic as hell. How did you live with them for two years?"
"I don't know. I guess I thought I deserved it? Or that it was normal?" I lean my head back against the seat. "It wasn't until Gunnar—until I saw how he treats me—that I realized how fucked up it was."
"Well, you're out now. That's what matters."
"Yeah." I close my eyes. "I'm out."
The rest of the drive passes in comfortable silence.
Hakon puts on some music—classic rock, nothing too loud—and I let myself decompress.
Let the adrenaline fade.
Let the reality of what just happened sink in.
I stood up for myself.
Didn't crumble.
Didn't let their words destroy me.
For the first time in years, I feel like maybe I actually am the person Gunnar sees when he looks at me.
Strong.
Worthy.
Capable of fighting back.
By the time we pull into the compound, I'm almost calm.
Almost.
Gunnar's waiting outside.
Because of course he is.
He's leaning against the wall by the entrance, trying to look casual, but I can see the tension in his shoulders.
The worry in his eyes.
He straightens when the van stops.
Moves toward us as fast as his healing body will allow.
"Hey." He opens my door, helps me out. "How'd it go?"
"It went."
"That bad?"
"Trisha grabbed me. I shoved her. Angela threw a mimosa at my head." I pause. "So yeah. That bad."
His jaw tightens.
"She grabbed you?"
"I handled it."
"She handled it," Hakon confirms, coming around the van with a box. "Your girl's got a mean right shove. Trisha hit the wall hard."
"Good." Gunnar's arm slides around me, pulls me close. "Anyone who puts their hands on you—"
"Gets shoved into a wall. I know. I did it." I lean into him, breathe him in. "Can we just... go inside? I don't want to think about them anymore."
"Yeah. Of course." He presses a kiss to my temple. "Hakon, Ulf—just leave the boxes. I'll figure out where to put them later."
"You sure?" Ulf asks. "We can—"
"You've done enough. Thank you. Both of you."
They nod, clap Gunnar on the shoulder, and head inside.
We stay in the parking lot for a moment.
Just holding each other.
"I'm proud of you," Gunnar says quietly.
"For shoving Trisha?"
"For standing up for yourself. For walking away. For being brave enough to close that door." He pulls back, looks at me. "That couldn't have been easy."
"It wasn't. But it was necessary." I manage a small smile. "I'm officially homeless now. All my worldly possessions are in the back of that van."
"Not homeless. You live here. With me."
"In your tiny room at the clubhouse."
"Our tiny room at the clubhouse." He grins. "Until we find something better. Speaking of which—I found three new listings while you were gone. All within ten minutes. All under budget."
"Really?"
"Really. Want to look at them?"
"Now?"
"No time like the present. Unless you need to decompress first. We can—"
"No." I take his hand, squeeze it. "Let's look at apartments. Let's plan our future. Let's do something that isn't about my toxic ex-roommates or the shit they said."
"You sure?"
"Positive. I want to think about good things right now. About us. About what comes next."
Gunnar smiles.
It's the smile that makes my heart flip.
The one that says I'm his and he's mine and nothing else matters.
"Then let's go find our home."
An hour later, we're curled up in Gunnar's bed—our bed—laptop balanced between us, scrolling through rental listings.
I've told him everything.
Every word they said.
Every insult they threw.
The mimosa, the grab, the shove.
He listened without interrupting.
Let me get it all out.
And when I was done, he just held me tighter and said, "I'm glad you never have to see them again."
Simple.
Supportive.
Exactly what I needed.
"What about this one?" He points to a listing on the screen. "Two bedrooms, one bath, five minutes from the clubhouse. Looks decent."
"The kitchen's tiny."
"You cook?"
"I could learn. For the right kitchen."
He laughs, scrolls to the next one. "This one's got a bigger kitchen. And a yard."
"A yard?" I peer at the photos. "That's not a yard. That's a patch of dirt with delusions of grandeur."
"Okay, fair point." More scrolling. "What about... this?"
I look at the listing.
Two bedrooms, one and a half baths.
Open floor plan.
Actual kitchen with actual counter space.
Small yard—real grass, not dirt.
Seven minutes from the clubhouse.
Just under budget.
"It's perfect," I breathe.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. Can we see it?"
"I already emailed the landlord. She can show us tomorrow afternoon if you're free."
"I'm free. I'll make myself free." I turn to look at him. "You really want to do this? Get a place together?"
"I really want to do this." He sets the laptop aside, pulls me closer.
"I want to wake up with you every morning in a bed that's actually big enough for two people.
I want to cook dinner with you in a kitchen that has more than a hot plate.
I want to sit on a couch that we picked out together and watch terrible movies and argue about what to order for takeout. "
"That sounds..."
"Boring?"
"Perfect." I kiss him softly. "It sounds perfect."
"Good. Because I'm going to spend the rest of my life giving you perfect. Or as close to it as I can manage."
"You already have."
We lie there for a while, tangled together, the laptop forgotten.
I think about the day I've had.
The confrontation.
The closure.
The future spreading out ahead of us like an open road.
"Gunnar?"
"Hmm?"
"Thank you."
"For what?"
"For seeing me. For staying. For being patient while I figured out how to believe I was worth it." I press closer to him. "For being my home before we even had a place to call home."
His arms tighten around me.
"Always," he says. "Always."
And I believe him.
For the first time in my life, I really, truly believe him.