7. Josie
JOSIE
I moved through the bedroom pulling things off shelves without looking at them. A sweater landed in the bag. A pair of shoes. I didn't know what I was taking or why I was taking any of it, and I didn't care.
My hands shook.
I grabbed a stack of jeans from the closet and stuffed them into the duffel without folding them.
They barely fit. I yanked the zipper halfway and left it there, then turned back for more.
A jacket. Underwear. The drawer stuck when I pulled it, and I yanked harder until it came free, spilling socks across the floor.
I left them where they fell.
My throat was tight, my chest pressing down like someone had their hand on it.
I refused to cry. I was not going to stand here in this ridiculous penthouse and cry over Vince Ardito while he sat in his office laughing at something Harlow said, with her hand on his arm like she had every right to touch him.
God, I was so stupid.
I grabbed a shirt from the hanger and it caught, tearing at the shoulder. The sound of it made something crack open inside me, but I bit down hard and threw the shirt in the bag anyway. It didn't matter. None of this mattered.
I should've gone into that office. I should've walked right through that door, looked Harlow in the eye, and told her to back the hell away from my husband. She didn't get to touch him. She didn't get to stand that close, or laugh like that, or act like he was hers when he wasn't.
Except I didn't do any of that.
I stood in the hallway like a coward and watched through the gap in the door, and then I turned around and left.
I didn't say a word. I didn't make a sound.
I took the diamond off in the elevator and walked away, and I had no idea why I'd done that either, except that wearing it made me feel like a liar.
My hands were still shaking.
I sat down on the edge of the bed and pressed my palms flat against my knees, trying to get them to stop. The question I didn't want to ask sat in my chest like a stone. Why didn't you go in?
Because I was scared, that's why. Not scared of what Harlow would say or what Vince would do.
Scared of the answer I'd see on his face when I interrupted them.
Scared that he wouldn't pull away from her.
Scared that he'd look at me the way he'd been looking at everything else for the past year — like I was one more thing on the list he didn't have time for.
Or worse. That he'd look annoyed. That I'd see irritation flash across his face before he remembered to hide it, the same way he used to look when his phone rang during dinner and it was someone he actually wanted to talk to. That expression that said I was in the way.
I wondered if I'd already known it was over. If that's why I hadn't fought. Because maybe a woman who didn't walk into that office and say something, who just turned around and left instead, had already made her choice without admitting it. Maybe I'd let go before I even knew I was holding on.
The thought made my stomach turn.
I stood up fast, like I could walk away from it, and turned toward the nightstand. I needed my phone charger. I needed to finish packing and get out of here before he came home and I had to see his face, because I didn't know what I'd say and I didn't trust myself not to take it all back.
The drawer by the bed was half open.
I pulled it the rest of the way without thinking, reaching for the charger cord, and that's when I saw it.
The iron ring, sitting in the back corner where I'd left it four years ago, next to a pair of broken earrings I'd never bothered to fix.
It was small and plain and rough around the edges where he'd filed it by hand.
He'd made it himself, back when he had nothing.
I stared at it. My hand hovered over the drawer like I'd been shocked, my pulse suddenly loud in my ears.
I didn't know why I was hesitating. It was just a piece of metal.
It didn't mean anything anymore. He'd replaced it with the diamond the second he could afford to, and I'd put this one away and never looked at it again.
I should leave it here.
But I didn't.
I picked it up, and the weight of it in my palm felt heavier than it should have. It was warm, like the drawer had been holding onto heat, and my fingers closed around it before I could think better of it. I slipped it into my pocket.
My throat ached.
I grabbed the charger and shoved it into the bag, zipping it closed the rest of the way.
Then I stopped, looking around the room.
I should leave him a note. That's what people did, wasn't it?
They explained. They said where they were going or why they were leaving or something, so the other person wasn't left standing there wondering what the hell had just happened.
I pulled open the drawer again and found a notepad and a pen.
The pen sat in my hand, the tip pressed against the blank page, and nothing came.
What was I supposed to say? I saw you with Harlow.
I saw her touch you and I saw you let her.
That sounded pathetic. I don't know if you love me anymore.
That sounded worse. I need time to think.
That was the truth, but it felt like letting him off easy, like I was the one who'd done something wrong.
The page stayed blank.
I stared at it for a long time, my hand cramping around the pen, my chest so tight I could barely breathe. Then I tore the paper off the pad, crumpled it into a ball, and threw it across the room. It hit the wall and dropped to the floor, and I left it there.
I didn't owe him an explanation. He'd get home and see my things were gone, and he'd figure it out.
I picked up the duffel and slung it over my shoulder, walking out of the bedroom without looking back. The penthouse was silent except for the sound of my shoes on the floor. I didn't stop at the door. I didn't check to see if I'd forgotten anything. I just left.
The parking garage was cold and too bright, the fluorescent lights buzzing overhead.
My car was where I'd left it that morning, wedged between a sedan and an SUV that cost more than my shop made in six months.
I threw the bag into the back seat and climbed in, slamming the door harder than I needed to.
The engine started on the first try.
I sat there for a moment, my hands on the wheel, staring at the concrete pillar in front of me. The penthouse was forty floors above me. I'd been married for nine years. Everything I'd grabbed was in the back seat, and everything else was still up there. My chest felt hollow.
My phone was in my purse on the passenger seat, and I knew without looking that there were messages from Vince. Probably a dozen of them by now. Where are you? Call me back. Josie, what the hell is going on?
I didn't want to know what they said.
I put the car in reverse and pulled out of the spot, winding through the levels of the garage until I reached the street.
The city opened up in front of me, all glass and steel and lights coming on as the sky turned dark.
I didn't know where I was going. Not back to the shop — the crew would still be there, and I didn't want to explain this to anyone.
Not to Rosa's, because she'd take one look at my face and know, and I wasn't ready for that either.
I just drove.
The ring sat in my pocket, pressing against my leg through the fabric, and my hand went to it without me deciding to.
My fingers traced the rough edge of it, the circle worn smooth in places from the years I'd worn it before the diamond replaced it.
I didn't pull it out. I didn't put it on.
I just held onto it, like it was the only thing keeping me from flying apart.
The question I'd been trying not to ask crept back in, quieter this time but just as sharp. Do you still love him?
I didn't know. God, I didn't know. I wanted to say yes, because nine years should mean something, because the boy who made this ring with his own hands was the same man who'd just let Harlow Vane touch him like I wasn't even in the picture.
But wanting to believe it and knowing it were two different things, and I wasn't sure which one I was holding onto anymore.
The lights blurred past, red and gold and white, and I kept driving.