Eight Years Together And I Was Worth Two Grand A Month Chapter 04

Eight Years Together And I Was Worth Two Grand A Month Chapter 04

For four whole days, I didn’t step outside that door.

The curtains were drawn tight, my phone was tossed to the other end of the sofa, and I jumped every time it buzzed.

Messages from Melody were non-stop.

I knew because the phone vibrated every few minutes.

On the fifth day, I picked up the phone.

Thirty-two unread messages.

She sent screenshots of her chats with Julian.

[Babe, I’ve booked the dress appointment for next month.]

[Packed your bags? Flight’s tomorrow morning, I’ll pick you up.]

[Miss you, FaceTime tonight.]

Every sentence felt like a red-hot iron rod poking into numb flesh.

She also sent a paragraph.

[Sera, he saw you turned off your phone and said he’s finally relieved.]

[He says he hates it when you cause a scene, said when you have an ‘episode,’ you’re uncontrollable—just like your mother.]

“Just like your mother.”

Those four words looped in my head a thousand times.

I threw the phone onto the floor.

Then I leaned down and picked it up.

The screen had a crack, but it still worked.

I huddled in the corner of the kitchen, looking at the small pot Julian used every day to make my oatmeal.

There was still a sticky note on the fridge in his handwriting: “Remember to eat breakfast.”

Eight years.

He sat in the back row of our high school classroom and put the best part of his lunch on my plate.

I said I wasn’t hungry.

He said, “If you don’t eat, I don’t eat.”

He helped me report my stepfather.

The day that man, who had beaten me for six years, was taken away by the police, Julian ran over and pulled me into his arms.

He said, “Sera, no one will ever touch you again.”

“I’ll protect you.”

His eyes were red, his chin rested on the top of my head, and his chest was warm.

That was the first time in my life I felt that living might not be so hard after all.

But now.

He took those precious memories and used them as evidence of why he loathed me.

I didn’t know when he started playing the hero to my face while calling me a psycho behind my back.

On the night of the sixth day, I showered and changed into clean clothes.

I turned on the lights and began tidying the place up piece by piece.

Then I started packing.

Only my things.

My toothbrush, my towels, that dark red cardigan my grandmother knitted before she died.

The lamp Julian gave me—I left it.

The letters he wrote—I left them.

The framed photo of us—I flipped it over, face down on the table.

I zipped up my suitcase and walked to the entryway.

I stuck a post-it note on the shoe rack.

Six words.

“Eight years. I’m giving them back.”

I left the key next to the note.

When I walked out, the hallway was silent.

The elevator dinged and opened.

I dragged my suitcase in and pressed ‘1.’

Before the doors closed, I took one last look at the place.

Then I didn’t look back.