Chapter 3
BEN
I should go home. That’s the truth I’ve been dancing around since Chanel walked out of my life like it was nothing more than a failed Tinder match.
If it were up to me, I’d already be on a flight back to England, back to the familiar.
The comfortable certainty of family money and inherited position within the business.
I groan. Because I’d never hear the end of it.
My stepfather wouldn’t give me too hard a time. He might jab a little. Yet Devon would never tire of the endless jokes. He’d use it as proof that I couldn’t hack it on my own.
My mother would welcome me with sympathetic smiles that felt too much like pity. And I’d spend the rest of my life wondering if I’d really failed or if I’d simply been too afraid to work for something of my own. If I’d merely used Chanel as an excuse to go back and take the easy way out.
So, for now, I stay.
I stay in Hanover, with a half-furnished rental and my pride duct-taped together.
It’s only been a few months since the breakup, but it still feels fresh.
Still aches in the moments when I’m alone with my thoughts, or passing couples laughing over coffee.
Hell, we never even went out for coffee.
We didn’t share a beverage to connect before or after work at home.
At first, everything with Chanel had felt effortless.
There was easy chemistry between us. She seemed genuinely excited to see me without being clingy.
She was supportive of my goals without trying to reshape them, or me, into something else.
Our relationship felt mature. In hindsight, I can’t help wondering if she was like all the rest. How much of what she loved was me, and how much was my bank account.
When the threat of losing her first crept in, panic took over. I was willing to twist into a pretzel to get her back. Promise to give more, try harder. I told myself I was fighting for love, but the truth is harder to admit. I simply didn’t want to admit to being a failure.
It wasn’t just about losing her, but failing at the life I thought we were building.
I can’t tell if I miss Chanel or if I miss the version of myself who believed that a mature relationship was possible.
All I know is that I didn’t realize how deeply she had carved herself into me until she was gone.
Until wanting her became something I could no longer have.
I’m starting to question whether it was really ever about her.
Especially after all of my tests came back normal, adding to the many questions about her and our relationship.
But I don’t have any spare time or energy to devote to figuring out what happened there. That’s a puzzle for another day.
I haven’t settled into a new routine yet.
I found a rental, but it’s outdated and a little drafty.
The kind of place that reminds you you’re only passing through.
Most of my things are still in storage. I had a few guys from a recent job help me unload the truck, promising myself I’d sort it all later.
This is the wake-up call I needed. From here on out, all of my energy goes into the business.
Finding the right property. Running the numbers.
Chasing down all of the required permits.
Building a career I can be proud of. Not dealing with sketchy, down on their luck women who manage to pull the wool over my eyes.
I return the rental truck and start toward the office when the door swings open. A blonde young woman in a baseball cap brushes past me, her ponytail swishing behind her. The faintest hint of something fruity trails in her wake.
Glancing back over my shoulder long enough to take her in, I find she’s already gone. Hellfire, man. What had you just been saying? Forget women. You’ve got an empire to build.
Focus!
Grace
I walk into the rental truck office like I have a mission.
Get your life back on track, Grace.
I worked a ten-hour shift today. My feet still ache, my hair smells faintly like strawberry air freshener from the dollar store shampoo I purchased, and I’m already so tired my bones feel as if they are crumbling beneath me like the ruins of an ancient burial ground.
God how I miss the leisurely days where I could relax into a warm bath with the freshly made soaps I’d created.
Vanilla and lavender and scents that spoke of calm, not artificial dollar store fragrances that remind you of a gas station bathroom deodorizer.
Yet it wasn’t the mental and physical fatigue that had me blinking into an abyss when I arrived home. As bad as things had gotten between us lately, nothing prepared me for what waited behind my front door.
Brad being gone.
And not just gone. It’s like he was never there. He, nor most of my possessions. Most of what’s missing was paid for by me.
Once the shock of it all sank in, and I could take inventory of the situation, I realized it was more than the couch and the television.
He took my grandmother’s lamp. The blender I bought on sale and paid off in installments.
My damn jewelry box. And the fucking towels.
Every. Single. One. He even took the coffee maker. And he doesn’t drink coffee!
But the worst part was my car. Between us, mine was the only reliable one. They both have over 200,000 miles on them. But at least mine would still start. I never knew what I was in for with his truck.
Out of the blue, my inner Tuesday monologue gets all fired up. “And just like a lazy man, he couldn’t even be bothered to leave a note. No half-assed apology. He left a whole lot of nothing.”
Basically, the same thing he put into this relationship.
Was it all for spite? Was he selling it all on Facebook Marketplace? I mean, why take all of the towels? Is there a high demand for used towels? Maybe Ryan Gosling’s. But certainly not mine.
I should’ve seen it coming. The signs were there. It was becoming increasingly more apparent he was a freeloader. In hindsight, there were an awful lot of evenings that I’d crawl home after work or taking care of Mom, only to find him out. “With the guys,” he’d said.
Yet in all the time we’d been together, I hadn’t actually met any guys.
Had there been someone else? Or perhaps multiple girls?
Had all that time on his phone been spent trolling for dates on Tinder?
And here I was worried it was porn. The thought is both anger-producing and nauseating in equal measure.
Part of me is madder than a wet hornet. I want to storm down to the police department and press charges.
But how? How would I prove what was here and that it belonged to me?
It’s not like I have itemized receipts or insurance on any of it.
Quite honestly, the effort it would take to put myself through it would cost more than any of the items are worth.
Not to mention continuing to fuel this anger and betrayal.
It’s not that I don’t think I’m worthy of going after him. I’m not a wimp.
I’m simply exhausted.
Incredibly tired by all life has thrown my way, day after day. From the effort it takes to keep my chin held high after each blow the universe hurls in my direction. Pretending that it doesn’t bother me, not wanting to give my enemies the satisfaction, or my mother or friends cause for concern.
So here I am, ready to pick up the pieces and move on. Another hard lesson learned. This time, it’s going to stick. I don’t care how charismatic or good looking they are. They can keep—
“I’m sorry, Miss?”
“Oh, yes?”
“Can I help you with something?”
Great balls of fire, Grace. Get it together. “Yes. I need to rent a truck,” I tell the clerk. “One of the smaller ones.”
“For moving?”
“For starting over.”
He blinks, then gives me an apologetic frown. “We just had one returned. I’ll get it inspected for you.”
“Thank you.”
I pick up the keys almost an hour later and drive back to what used to be our apartment.
It’s almost empty now. Thrift store furniture, mismatched dishes, my clothes…
that’s basically it. There’s barely enough here to fill a moving van, but I don’t trust putting it in his old broken-down truck.
I’m already nervous I could need a tow. What would happen to what’s left of my things if it were back there?
And I need to get this place spotless if I want my security deposit back.
I don’t have savings left after picking up Mom’s most recent prescriptions. So I need that check.
I hang my head. There’s a truck out front on borrowed time. And a mother who… well, I don’t want to consider how much time she has left. Because her emphysema has been waging a hard battle this year.
Today has been bad enough. I’m allowing myself ten minutes to cry this out. That’s it. He’s not worth a minute more.
Once I’m done, I wipe my face, plug in my phone, and cue up “Stronger” by Kelly Clarkson.
With my head held high and my back ramrod straight, I tell myself, “You’ve got this.
” I begin bouncing in place to the rhythmic beat of the tune, like a boxer, punching the air, all the while pretending it’s Brad’s stupid face I’m pummeling.
I belt the words out along with her as she sings of how they think they may have bested her, and thought they’d left her broken, but she’s going to come back even stronger.
The song is now on auto-repeat, the powerful lyrics coursing through me like adrenaline.
My heart thunders beneath my sternum. It’s a good feeling to be alive.
Focus on that, Grace. As I reach for my phone to pause the loud music, I do a quick Google search of the famous quote this song was apparently derived from.
“That which does not kill us makes us stronger,” attributed to German philosopher Friedrich Nietzche. I read aloud. Hmm. I was never big into poetry or philosophy in school. So most quotes tend to go a little over my head. I’m not dumb, just not interested. There’s a difference.