Unwrapping Holly

“B—But why are you taking my car?”

“It isn’t your car,” Malcolm shrugged. “It’s a lease. A lease with my name on it.”

“Yes, but I’ve been making the payments!”

He nodded. “You have. And on time too. I appreciate that, but—”

“You gave me a car for my bir

thday,” I said, slowly raising my voice, “and you gave me a payment book along with it! Don’t you remember?”

“Of course.”

“What kind of a boyfriend gives his girlfriend a fucking payment book?” I practically shouted. “Who the hell does that?”

Now we did have an audience. Half the diner was staring at us, like the bloodthirsty crowd of a gladiatorial coliseum. Waiting for whatever entertainment came next. Hoping for me to slap him, or throw a drink in his face, or—

“What do you mean this ‘isn’t working out’?” I yelled. “How long have you known? And you take me here? To the shittiest diner in all of Manhattan?”

The waitress topping off coffee halted mid-stride. She glared at me angrily, one dirty pot clutched in each of her hands.

“You break up with me today of all days? And now you’re taking my car?”

“Not your car,” Malcolm repeated simply. “It’s—”

“I KNOW WHAT IT IS!”

A thousand different emotions went surging through me at once. Heartbreak. Rage. Remorse. Stupidity, at not having seen this coming. Embarrassment at having to do it in a room full of strangers.

Malcolm pushed the keychain back across the table, minus my car key and remote fob. He also pushed something else: a pair of what looked like pamphlets or brochures.

“What the hell are these?”

“City bus schedules,” he offered helpfully. “And subway maps, for all the lines near—”

“You brought me bus schedules?” I growled.

“Mmm-hmmm,” he said, almost cheerfully. “And subway maps. Look, if you leave your apartment ten minutes earlier each morning, it’s real easy to just…”

His voice droned on, but I was no longer listening. My shoulders slumped. My head hurt. I couldn’t believe any of this was actually happening.

Malcolm laid his hand over mine again, but now I was repulsed by it. I jerked it back like I’d just gotten bitten by a snake.

“Holly, I want you to know—”

I leapt up and threw my napkin down on the table. The tears were coming again. There was no way to stop them this time, and I didn’t want anyone else to see.

Especially him.

The diner’s bathroom was just as tiny as the rest of it. I spent two minutes bawling my eyes out, another minute feeling sorry for myself, and another staring into the dirt-streaked mirror while telling myself to buck up. By the time I finished washing my face and putting drops in my eyes, I was ready to go out there and give that piece of shit a piece of my mind.

But when I returned to my table there was just one problem with that plan: Malcolm wasn’t there.

Son of a bitch!

Silently I kicked myself. I really should’ve known. My boyfriend was never good at conflict; he usually dealt with problems by ducking out and skulking away.

Like a coward.