Chapter 29
TWENTY NINE
DON’T DO IT, Amy.
Matthew’s words, his strained calm, and the impossible choice James forced on me swirl like a fog as I navigate back to the apartment. Icy dread pools in my stomach as the building comes into view.
Just an hour ago, I was strolling near a sunlit lake with Matthew’s arms around me. Now, I walk alone down this dimly lit corridor. Fingers tight on the cold metal key. My feet drag. The door feels like a portal back to the life I need to dismantle.
The click of the lock echoes a finality I can’t fully grasp. Entering this apartment is like trespassing on an archeological dig of my own recent past.
The silence is absolute.
There is no comfort here. Only the cold reality of the task ahead:
Pack all of my belongings.
Erase myself from this space.
Forcing my legs to move, I walk past the dining table, avoiding eye contact with the ghosts of shared meals.
I head straight to the bedroom. I go directly to the walk-in closet, filled mostly with James’s things.
Tucked in the back corner is my scuffed black suitcase.
My faithful companion through too many transitions.
I pull it out, wheels rattling on the hardwood. Heaving it onto the pristine king-sized bed feels like placing a coffin where a life used to sleep.
The zipper hisses open.
The sound pulls me back. The past becomes a sudden, visceral memory…
I’m laughing, pulling colorful sweaters and worn paperbacks out of my suitcase. I hang dresses on the empty rod space he cleared for me. I stack books on my newly appointed bedside table.
James sits propped against the plush headboard, watching me with that lazy, possessive smile that used to make my heart flutter.
“I’m telling you, Mimi, this is the last time you unpack that suitcase of yours.” His words delivered in that silky smooth voice.
And I believed him. Oh God, how completely I believed him, feeling the deep relief of finally, finally putting this suitcase away for the last time.
The memory dissolves, leaving my harsh present reality feeling cruelly unreal.
I just stare.
I stare at the empty, fabric-lined interior gaping open on the duvet, waiting to swallow the debris of my life.
Packing again.
Moving again.
A familiar tightness constricts my throat, my chest heavy with unshed grief.
My eyes burn, hot and achingly dry. It feels like a circuit blew somewhere deep inside during last night’s storm.
The mechanism for tears seems broken. The intensity of the past twenty-four hours has stripped away everything soft and yielding inside me.
There’s pain, yes. Deep and solid. But it’s a dry, brittle pain.
No tears left to soften the edges.
Eventually, numbness descends like a shroud. Moving on autopilot, I walk toward the cavernous walk-in closet James loves to brag about. My side looks sparse compared to his endless rows of suits. It’s the life I tried to cram into his world.
My hands move mechanically.
Jeans folded into squares.
Sweaters stacked.
T-shirts.
Socks.
The mundane essentials of a life, reduced to folded fabric destined for the suitcase. Again.
Each movement is slow.
Deliberate.
Disconnected.
Emotionless.
Only the quiet slide of hangers and the soft thud of clothes landing in the bag.
My fingers work along the rod, pushing hangers aside. My hand closes around another hook, my fingers brushing against smooth silk.
I freeze.
My autopilot glitches.
I slide the hanger forward, revealing the blood-red dress.
Undeniably gorgeous.
Undeniably expensive.
Undeniably James.
It’s exactly the kind of overtly sexy showpiece he always preferred.
But this one is special…
Driven by morbid curiosity, I carry the dress to the tall cheval mirror near the vanity.
I hold it up against my body. The silk drapes over the heavy knit of my sweater dress. My reflection stares back. Pale face, tangled ponytail, holding this scrap of luxurious red silk. As I stare, the image flickers and shifts…
The mirror reflects a different woman. Cheeks flushed with excitement, eyes bright.
I had just gotten home from a long day at the café, my first week as owner.
I was tired and looking forward to a quiet night in with James.
But the apartment was empty. In the bedroom, an enormous bouquet of white lilies and red roses dominated the vanity.
On the bed, scattered with rose petals, sat a white box tied with a thick scarlet ribbon, a small envelope propped against it.
The card read:
My Sexiest Mimi,
Maddy’s Place at 8.
Love, J xx
I couldn’t wait to pull the ribbon. Impeccably wrapped in tissue was a deep red dress in silk so liquid it shimmered under the light. Breathtaking and luxurious. My fatigue vanished, replaced by giddy excitement, even though it made no sense to wear something so glamorous to my little café.
Hours later, I arrived at Maddy’s Place in the figure-hugging silk.
The main lights were dimmed, the space transformed.
Candles flickered everywhere, casting a warm glow over dozens of red roses on every surface.
A thick carpet of petals led toward the counter, where, beneath an archway of roses, James knelt on one knee.
His eyes sparkled as I walked toward him.
My reflection sharpens. The memory disappears.
I’m holding this red dress against this green one I’ve been wearing since last night.
The “Sexiest Mimi” he wanted, the woman who wore this dress with na?ve excitement, feels like a stranger. This dress, a symbol of his grand manipulation, has no place in the life I need to rebuild.
Turning away, I walk back into the closet and slide the hanger onto the rod.
It is now the only item left hanging in my empty section.
The next few hours pass in a blur of folding, rolling, stuffing the pieces of my life into the single black suitcase.
Each item packed feels like another small act of erasure.
When the last piece is in, I force the zipper shut.
The sound is final and definitive. I drop the suitcase to the floor and roll it to the wall, leaving it sitting there by the closet door.
My entire life in Madison, reduced to one piece of luggage.
The thought no longer sparks pain, just bone-deep weariness.
I drift to the kitchen. I fill the electric kettle, set a mug on the counter, and retrieve a chamomile tea bag from the cabinet. The simple ritual is a much-needed moment. As I wait for the water to boil, the quiet hum of the kettle is a welcome distraction from the madness.
Mug in hand, I slide the glass door open and step onto the balcony, breathing in the warm afternoon air.
The familiar panorama of downtown Madison spreads before me.
A view I’ve watched in all seasons, all moods.
I lean on the railing, taking a slow sip, letting the warmth of the tea spread through my chest. I know with aching certainty this will be the last time I stand here.
I nurse my tea as the sun begins its slow descent.
Hues of orange, pink, and bruised purple bleed across the sky.
The sounds of the city rise to meet me: a distant hum of traffic, the faint echo of a siren…
I try to memorize every detail. The colors, the sounds, the silhouette of the city against the dying light, and the feeling of standing here, in what was briefly home.
I drink the last of my tea, the empty mug cold now.
The sun dips below the horizon, leaving behind a deepening twilight.
I step back inside and slide the glass door shut.
The distinct scrape of a key makes me turn.
The door swings open, and James steps in, running a hand through his messy hair.
He’s still wearing the same clothes from last night.
He kicks the door shut and tosses his keys onto the console table with a clatter.
His head lifts, gaze sweeping the room before landing on me.
A slow smirk spreads across his tired face. “Enjoying your remaining days here?” he drawls, voice thick with a hangover.
His tone grates on my nerves. I grit my teeth. Before I can reply, he is already striding toward the bedroom.
“Make yourself at home while you still can,” he says over his shoulder. “I need a shower.”
Hopeless.
With a frustrated sigh, I leave my mug on the coffee table and march after him. I follow him toward the bedroom but freeze just inside the doorway.
James has gone still.
His back is to me, but I see the sudden rigidity in his shoulders.
His gaze is fixed on the spot by the closet where my lone suitcase stands waiting. He takes another stiff step forward, his attention drawn to the open closet. He takes a stiff step forward and stops again. For a beat, he just stands there, head bowed.
His fist lashes out.
He punches the door hard, sending it crashing violently against the back wall with an explosive bang. He lingers there for a second, shaking, before stepping inside. Seconds later, he emerges gripping the red silk dress.
He holds it out, the cynical look intensified. “How dramatic!” His words drip with mock sentimentality that quickly hardens into scorn. “You’ve always been so theatrical, Mimi.” He stalks toward me.
I back up until my legs hit the bed frame.
We are standing inches apart.
I raise my face to his, looking him straight in the eye. “I don’t care,” I say, voice a little shaky at first. “What you think doesn’t matter anymore.”
Nostrils flaring, he stares at me with those unfeeling brown eyes.
I refuse to flinch.
Then, his expression softens, a shift so slight I almost miss it. He brings his face even closer and it takes every ounce of willpower to stand my ground.
“There was a time when you loved me.” He says it quietly, almost gently. The truth of his words makes me feel horribly exposed.
It’s a calculated move. A deliberate shift from rage to feigned hurt, designed to disarm me.
And it works.
It’s like he peeled back the layer of fury to touch the still-tender bruise beneath.
I swallow hard, my gaze flickering away from the unsettling softness in his eyes, but I force it back. I clench my hands into fists at my sides to stop them from shaking, locking my knees to hold my ground under his too-close, too-knowing gaze.
“I could say the same,” I counter hoarsely. “Except, I’m not so sure you ever loved me.”
He eases back a little and sighs. “I loved you my way, Mimi.”
“Your way, yes. But that wasn’t love. It was manipulation.”
“You think you’re clever, but you’re going to regret this,” he warns, his jaw clenching. “I’m more than you deserve, sweetheart. You’ll never find better.”
“I’d rather be alone,” I spit back, the words wiping the smirk right off his face.
“Oh, yeah?” His face contorts with rage. “Well then, fucking be alone!” He pivots, grabbing my suitcase and shoving it out of the room.
James’s fingers dig into my upper arm as he drags me out. I twist against his hold, a useless struggle against his iron grip, my feet stumbling to keep up. He snatches my handbag from the dining room table and shoves it against my chest.
“By all means, don’t let me keep you from the streets where you belong,” he says through gritted teeth, throwing the door open and kicking my suitcase out into the corridor.
An involuntary yelp escapes me when he pushes me out after it. “And don’t even think of not showing up Friday night. I’m not fucking around, Amy. If you make me look bad, I’ll make sure you’re left with nothing but this suitcase,” he snarls before slamming the door in my face.
I stand for a moment, staring at the closed door, his final push still vibrating through me.
It’s always just been a matter of time with us, and I knew it. A part of me knew this wasn’t forever, but I kept clinging to the hope that one day he’d surprise me by coming to his senses.
A bitter scoff escapes me. He sure did surprise me in the end.
Taking a ragged breath, I force my trembling legs to move. I grab the handle of the suitcase and pull it upright. Its wheels rumble softly as I turn my back on his apartment door for the last time. I walk toward the elevators, focusing only on putting one foot in front of the other.
The journey down to the parking lot passes in a numb haze. I pop the trunk, heave my suitcase inside, and slide behind the wheel.
Suitcase at my side, I stand in front of the dark glass doors of Maddy’s Place. My fingers, clumsy with exhaustion and shock, fumble for the keys. The lock clicks open. I push the door inward, stepping into the comforting darkness of the café.
Locking the door behind me, I drag my suitcase down the corridor to my office.
The familiar space looks alien in the shadows.
I flick my desk lamp on, bathing the space in a warm orange glow.
With movements heavy as lead, I lay the suitcase flat near the couch and unzip it.
The neatly folded clothes stare up at me, remnants of a life packed away in a blur.
I pull out the simple cotton pajamas I shoved in near the top.
Before changing, I walk back to the office door and turn the deadbolt—something I’ve never done before.
It doesn’t make me feel safer, only more keenly aware of my vulnerability.
I change into the white and pale pink striped, long-sleeved cotton set.
But the softness offers little comfort in this cold office.
I fold my green sweater dress and place it carefully back in the suitcase.
Then, retrieving my heavy wool coat, I lie down on the lumpy couch and pull it over me. I turn onto my side, facing the door.
And here, alone, curled under my inadequate coat, the dam breaks.
A silent, steady stream of hot tears escapes from under my closed eyelids, trailing across the bridge of my nose.
Tears for the lost home, the shattered future, the cruelties endured, the terrifying uncertainty ahead.
Tears for the kindness I received today that makes this loneliness feel even sharper.
Tears for the na?ve woman who believed his promise of forever.