I fill one with things from the medicine cabinet and that ends up being all that’s left in the bathroom. My heart races as I pick up the other empty box.
I pad into the closet and flick on the light. It’s empty except for the one side. My breath catches at the sight of all of Ben’s clothes. They hang there, waiting for him to return, only he’s never coming back. I have to accept that fact.
I step forward with determined strides. I drop the box on the floor and then grab a handful of button-down shirts still on the hangers and shove them in the box. My breath catches when I look down at them but I keep going. I shove everything that’s left of his—jeans, socks, boxers, shirts, all of it—into that one box. The box overflows, unable to hold that much stuff, but I don’t care. My throat catches and I choke on a sob. There’s a sweatshirt on top of the pile. One from our high school with his last name spelled out across the back. He got it for playing football. I pick it up and cradle it to my chest. The baby kicks my stomach, like she feels my turmoil.
I sink to the floor on my knees and sob into his sweatshirt. I remember his sweet smile and kind blue eyes. I feel the whisper of his lips against my cheek and the stroke of his fingers through my hair.
“I miss you,” I whisper, and the baby kicks. I think she’s saying she misses her daddy too. I press a hand to my stomach and feel her little foot press against my skin. “It’s just me and you baby girl,” I choke. “I hope that’s enough for you. I hope I’m enough.”
I wipe my tears on my arm. I’m not wearing any makeup so there’s no smear of mascara, thankfully.
I hold onto the sweatshirt. This … This I refuse to let go.
I leave the box in the closet and turn off the light. Someone else can sort everything into separate boxes.
I did my part. I made the decision to get rid of it all.
Later that evening, my mom and I arrive at the apartment. The walls of the main living area are painted a beige color. It’s not much of a color change but it warms up the space from the stark white. I’m thankful that Justin was willing to let me change the paint colors—as long as he approved them first.
For the bedroom, I chose a color that was in-between brown and gray. It was an odd color, but I liked it, and it made the light upholstered headboard even more of a statement piece.
Ryder and my dad sit on the couch—a gray colored tufted design—drinking a beer. They’re both covered in paint. Ryder even has some sprinkled in his hair.
“Hey,” he says, turning to smile at me as we ent
er the apartment. “Let me get that.” He jumps up immediately to grab the box from my hands.
“I’m surprised you’re still here,” I say. “What about Cole?”
“My mom insists he’s fine.” Ryder waves away my concern. “I’ll pick him up as soon as I leave here. There was something I wanted to show you first.” He checks the label on the box and sets it in front of the bathroom.
“Oh,” I say, surprised. “What’s that?”
“Come here.” He nods towards the door that leads into what will be the nursery.
My brows furrow in confusion. He takes my hand and leads me to the door before swinging it open.
“Oh my God,” I gasp. An antique chandelier has been installed in the middle of the room, and as impressive as that is, that’s not what takes my breath away. The walls are painted in horizontal stripes of a cream color and a pale pink. It’s perfect, and exactly what I wanted without even saying anything. “Ryder,” I breathe. “It’s gorgeous. Why? How? This must have taken forever.”
He shrugs. “I know you’ve been having a hard time and I’d hoped this would make you happy. I’m glad I was right.”
I throw my arms around his neck. “Thank you.” My voice muffles against his skin.
He hugs me back—his hands solid and strong against me. “You’re welcome,” he whispers. “I’m happy you like it.”
“Like it?” I repeat, letting him go. “I love it. It’s like you read my mind. This is perfect for what I have in mind for the baby.” My hand falls to my stomach where she kicks. I laugh. “I think she approves.”
He smiles adorably.
My mom finally steps into the room, and she gasps the same way I did. “This is gorgeous.” She turns around, looking at each wall before pointing at the ceiling. “That’s beautiful, where’d you find it?”
“Flea market,” Ryder answers. “I had to fix it up a bit, but it was a good find.”
“You go to flea markets?” I ask, fighting laughter.
He chuckles and ducks his head so that his paint spackled hair falls into his eyes. “Yes,” he says. “You should come sometime.”
“Maybe I will.”