Chapter 9 #2
First attempt: So, do you offer emotional crisis management as a service, or was that a one-time, free trial situation?
Delete. Too needy.
Second attempt: Hey, thanks for the chat last night. Also, if you ever need someone to ruin your faith in humanity, I’ve got a Jackson to loan you.
Delete. Too bitter.
Third attempt: Quick question—what’s the appropriate waiting period before a guy can make self-deprecating jokes about his ex without looking like a walking red flag?
Delete. Too accurate.
Fourth attempt: Are you a licensed therapist or just really good at talking people off metaphorical ledges? Because either way, I’m impressed.
Delete. Jesus. I sound like a lot.
I am a lot. I drop my phone onto the counter, exhaling heavily.
I’m not texting her. I refuse to be that guy—the one who overshares, who overstays their welcome, who can’t take a fucking hint.
She gave me a moment of clarity when I needed it. That’s enough.
I turn off my phone, pour myself a strong drink, and try not to think about Chloe until there’s a knock at the door.
Then another.
Then a third—impatient.
“Hold the fuck on,” I growl, setting the glass down a little too hard.
Every step toward the front is heavier than the last. My pulse hammers like it’s trying to punch through my ribs. I’m already pissed, already tired, and whoever’s behind that door is about to catch hell.
I glance through the peephole.
The world tilts.
It’s Chloe.
Standing on the other side like she has any fucking right.
My breath locks in my chest, rage spiking a sudden fever. Every ounce of wreckage she left behind crashes into me all at once.
I open the door without a word.
A cold wave of irritation sweeps over me as she breezes past me in that blood-red coat, her entrance a gift-wrapped grenade, lobbed straight into my chest.
“What do you want, Chloe?” I snap, slamming the door shut behind her.
She doesn’t answer. Just stares at the apartment like it’s a museum she used to curate, inspecting the damage with that familiar, calculating detachment.
Her gaze lands on the coffee table. On the book—her book—shredded, split in two, pages scattered like confetti at a funeral.
It hits her.
Good. Let her stand amongst the ruin she left behind.
“What happened to my book?”
Like she doesn’t already know.
I step forward, voice thick with sarcasm. “Oh, your book? Turns out cheating doesn’t make for great bedtime reading.”
Her fingers tense around the handle of the Birkin bag I bought her for Christmas. I keep going.
“So I did what anyone would do when the words in front of them turn to bullshit—I ripped it apart. Kind of cathartic, actually. You should try it. Start with the fairytale you sold me over the past year.”
Her jaw tightens. “Don’t be so dramatic, Nolan.”
“Dramatic?” I bark out a laugh. “You’ve been radio silent since I walked in on you riding Jackson like a goddamn parade float. No text. No call. Not even a Post-It.”
She whirls around, eyes blazing. “I didn’t think you’d want to hear from me. You made that clear when you stormed out.”
“You think I wanted to walk out?” My voice spikes, fists clenched at my sides. “You think I was looking for an excuse to disappear? All I wanted was closure. Accountability. Hell, a note under the door would’ve been more than what you gave me.”
Her lips press into a thin line. “I thought it was better to just… move on.”
“Move on?” I repeat, venom curling around every syllable. “No. You didn’t move on. You disappeared.”
Her arms cross over her chest. “I gave you space.”
“No. You gave me nothing.”
A beat passes. Her polish is cracking now—her shoulders inching higher, her jaw tensing. What is she holding back?
“I’m here to grab my stuff,” she says quietly. “That’s it.”
I scoff. “You’re unbelievable. All that we shared, and now you want your measuring cups and throw pillows like this is a goddamn asset split?”
Her gaze hardens. “Some clothes. A few kitchen things. And the Dutch oven.”
“The Dutch oven?” I laugh, dry and bitter. “You’re seriously here for a cast iron pot?”
“I also need my key back,” she adds, brushing hair behind her ear.
“Gladly.” I snatch my keys out of the bowl and yank hers off the ring, the metal biting into my palm. But then there's that shift. That pause. Her hand tightens even more around her bag.
And I know.
“Why do you need your key back?” I ask, even though I already feel the answer, cold and rising.
She doesn’t even hesitate. “Because I need to turn it into management. I’m moving in with Jackson next weekend.”
The words land like a battering ram to the ribs. I don’t breathe for a full minute.
“You’re what?”
She lifts her chin. “I’m moving in with him.”
The key cuts deeper into my hand. I didn’t think I had anything left to be blindsided by.
Turns out, I was dead fucking wrong.
“It just makes sense,” she says softly.
“Sense.” The word tastes like blood in my mouth. “Right. Like fucking the guy I work with makes sense.”
I pause. Then lower my voice. “Just tell me, Chloe. When did we fall apart? Was it a slow fade, or did I just miss the second you gave up?”
She doesn’t answer. Just stares at me with a blank sort of resolve. She’s already rewritten this chapter without me in it.
“I thought I knew you.” My voice falters despite myself. “I thought we were building a real life. But now I’m wondering if all I ever loved was the version of you I needed you to be.”
Still, she says nothing.
“Help me understand,” I whisper. “When did we stop making sense?”
Her posture shifts, but she stays quiet.
“Why won’t you fucking talk?”
“Does it matter, Nolan?” she says finally. “It’s over. You’re making this harder than it needs to be.”
I step closer. “It matters to me.”
“I don’t know what you want me to say,” she murmurs. “It just… happened.”
“Yeah. That’s the thing about betrayal—it always just happens, right?”
She flinches. Barely.
But I want her to hurt. I want her to feel what I’m feeling. Chloe made it look easy—replacing me like I was just a placeholder she forgot to erase.
And I stood there, trying to understand a version of us that apparently only existed in my head.
So I meet her gaze. “It wasn’t the lie that broke me. It was how fast you pretended I never mattered.”
She doesn’t reply, just moves into the kitchen, collecting what she came for then heads into the bedroom for a few minutes. Classic Chloe, always running from conflict.
I stay rooted to the spot I’m standing in, waiting, burning in the silence.
Chloe reappears, a bag slung over her shoulder, the damn Dutch oven propped on her hip.
She finally says, “You gave me everything. But you never really saw me. You saw who you wanted me to be. You made me into your ‘forever girl’ as though I was some box on your checklist. But I needed more than perfect weekends and predictable plans. I needed real.”
“I was real.”
“You were safe,” she corrects. “Comfortable. Way over the top with gestures, if I’m being honest. But you never asked what I wanted.”
My brow furrows, taking in her words.
Chloe’s voice drops to a whisper. “You were going to ask me to move in. But have you ever stopped to ask yourself—if you were so very much in love with me, why didn’t you buy a ring instead of a key?”
Those words sink deeper than the silence ever did.
“You loved the idea of me more than you ever really loved me.”
I’m mute. I don’t have an answer. She’s right.
She moves to the door. “I’m not apologizing for wanting more.”
“Jackson?” His name curdles on my tongue like sour milk. “He’s your more?”
She pauses by the doorway, eyes steady. “He doesn’t see who I could be. Or who I used to be. He just sees… me.”
I stare at her.
“I’ll send a service to retrieve the rest of my things.”
Then she’s gone. No fanfare. No slammed door. Only the sound of heels against hardwood, and then the quietest click I’ve ever heard as the door shuts behind her.
I stand there, alone, surrounded by shadows and silence and the faint trace of her perfume in the air.
I’m hollow. Someone scooped out everything good and left the shell behind. Even the air feels borrowed.
Because now it’s over.
Undeniably over.
The next morning creeps in like a tender bruise I didn’t notice yesterday, and it’s just starting to hurt.
I haven’t really slept. Not since Chloe dropped what was left of us on my living room floor and strutted out like a divorce court contestant carrying a consolation prize. Apparently, the Dutch oven was the hill she chose to die on.
Her words are still rattling around in my skull.
You loved the version of me you made up in your head.
Why didn’t you buy a ring instead of a key?
Each sentence is a new blade, carving through the carefully built narrative I’d wrapped myself in for a year.
So I do the only thing that makes sense.
I leave.
The gym smells like suffering. Sweat, rubber, testosterone, and a hint of rage. The clang of iron, the raw grind of muscle, the way pain is earned here—it’s the only thing that makes sense right now.
I throw myself into the bench press. Bad Omens blasts through my headphones, giving my fury a soundtrack. The bar is heavier than it should be. Doesn’t matter. I press through it anyway, chasing the pain.
The bar locks into place with a satisfying clang. Chest heaving, I sit up and wipe my face. The sting helps. So does the burn.
But Chloe’s voice slices through the noise.
You were safe.
You never really saw me.
She’s not wrong.
I didn’t picture kids. Or marriage. Or even us ten years from now. I pictured Sunday night takeout. Matching Netflix queues. A clean, domestic kind of loneliness that didn’t ask for anything more than maintenance.
That’s the real betrayal.
Not hers.
Mine.
I lift, again and again, until my arms shake.
Would I have listened, if Chloe told me she wasn’t happy? Would I have changed? Or would I have plastered over the cracks and called it progress?
The question hurts me more than I expect. I drop the bar. And for the first time this week, I breathe without anger.
What I feel instead… is clarity.
This was never just about her cheating. It was about us never really being. Just performing.
A compiled slideshow of a relationship. Whatever I thought I was building before—it wasn’t a life. It was a well-decorated holding pattern.
And now that it’s over, I want the real thing.
Whatever that looks like.
Whenever that happens.
Whoever it’s with.