Chapter 33
CHAPTER 33
Wayne’s been begging me to call Noémie. He can go fuck himself. Noémie can go fuck herself. I’m done.
“Are you sure about this?” Sarah asks.
I thrust a cardboard box into my best friend’s arms. “Yup.”
“She’ll be back in a day, why don’t you talk to her first? I’m not trying to make any excuses for her—she did you dirty, but …”
“If you don’t want to live with me, just say so.”
“It’s not that.” Sarah adjusts her grip on the box. “But are you really telling me that you want to give up these sweet digs? It’s so close to the coffee shop, and I know you still have feelings for her. Why not try to work things out?”
I drill Sarah with a dirty look. “I don’t want to talk to her. I don’t want to see her. She doesn’t exist.”
Sarah chuckles. “Wow, I seriously never thought I’d see you get so butt hurt over a chick. She’s got you twisted.”
I grit my teeth. “I’m not twisted.”
Sarah snorts. “She’s got you twisted tighter than a pretzel, fam.”
“I’m not twisted,” I insist.
“Sure you aren’t.”
I roll my eyes and wave Sarah away. “My uncle Weston needs his truck back in three hours. We can’t waste time. Drop the topic of Noémie.”
“Okay … for now,” Sarah says. “I kind of agree with Wayne on this one. You should talk to her before moving out. You’re taking the nuclear option, you know that right?”
I don’t respond. Of course, I’m taking the nuclear option. That’s the point. The best way to end something is to starve it. If I talk to Noémie, I’ll just be feeding my emotions for her when what I want to do is pour gasoline over my feelings and light a match.
When all my things are loaded in the truck, I drop my key into an envelope and lick the seal. It’s not until I slide the envelope through the mail slot that it hits me—I’m moving out. There will be no more over-the-top dinners paired with wine. There will be no more cuddling up on the couch next to Noémie to watch Netflix. There will be no more carving pumpkins and dressing up in ridiculous costumes. There will be no more barking every time the doorbell rings. There will be no more of a lot of things. Good.
Sure, it sucks that I’ll still have to put up with Noémie at work, but she will be bumped to the evening shift. I wonder if there are any HR implications with doing that … Will I have to speak to the owners, disclosing a watered-down version of what happened between me and Noémie? Fuck, this is so messy.
I stare at the beautiful semi-detached Victorian, with its forest green shutters and red brick facade. My chest aches.
Blowing out a deep breath, I walk to the truck and get in. Eyes burning and throat tight, I start up the truck and reverse it out of the driveway. The radio station blasts “WAP” of all things. I shut the music off and blink back tears. These days, I’m such a crybaby—I hate it.
“You sure you want to do this?” Sarah asks. “It isn’t too late to go back. You don’t have a lot of things; we’d be able to unload and get your uncle the truck in time.”
Even if I wanted to change my mind, which I don’t, I don’t have the key. It’s in the mailbox, and I’m not about to try and fish the envelope out.
I can’t live with Noémie. Not after what she did. She treated me and my feelings like a game. I need to make it clear to her that she lost.