I hit send, dig into some gumbo and get back to work, hoping to wrap things up early so I can get home, see my man, and finish packing.
***
“I’m going to London, uh huh, uh huh,” I sing, changing the words of the song on the radio as I turn down my street. I’m dancing in my seat, jamming out, on top of the world.
“Now I’m just cheesy,” I mutter as I kill the engine and dance my way toward the door. “And I don’t even care.”
I giggle as I open the front door. Simon’s car is parked at the curb, so he’s home already.
“’Ello, Govnah,” I say in the worst imitation of a British accent ever. “I’m home! Are you ready to—”
My voice dies and I stop cold when I see Simon standing in the living room. His suitcase is sitting next to him. He’s wearing jeans and a polo; his hair is still wet from a shower.
“What’s going on?”
“I’ve decided to leave tonight,” he says. His voice is cold, and I’m completely thrown off balance.
“Oh, okay. Well, I’m mostly packed, just give me fifteen minutes to finish up and I’ll be ready to go.”
“No.”
My gaze flies to his. He’s not looking me directly in the eyes.
“I’m going alone,” he says. I don’t know who this stranger is.
“What’s going on, Simon?”
He shakes his head once. “This isn’t going to work out, Charly. I think we both know that.”
“We do?”
He nods and shoves his hands in his pockets.
“And you’re leaving.”
“I was always going to leave,” he replies. “I just changed my mind about you coming with me.”
“Why?”
“Because I did.” His jaw ticks as he clenches it; his blue eyes are ice cold. Every muscle in his body is tight.
He’s pissed.
And by God, so am I.
“You were never going to take me with you.”
He simply shrugs, and I see red.
“So, when I bought a four-thousand dollar airline ticket last week, you didn’t think that would have been a good time to tell me that you’d changed your mind?”
“You can afford it,” he replies. “Don’t pretend like it was a hit on your trust fund.”
Direct hit.
My fists clench, but I make myself keep my face passive.
“You’re a dick,” I say.
He shrugs again.
“And you’re a motherfucking hypocrite. You spew all these ideals about communication and knowing your worth and then you play me like this? Was this always a game for you?”
“It doesn’t matter what it was for me,” he replies and grabs the handle of his suitcase. “I stayed to say goodbye.”
“Well, thanks for small favors,” I reply. “I don’t have to take this from you.”
I walk to the front door and open it, holding it open for him.
“Someone taught me to stand up for myself and to not settle for less than what I want. You should meet him sometime. He’s a hell of a man.”
He sighs and walks to me, pausing before he walks out. He reaches up to drag his hand down my face and I jerk back before he can touch me.
“No. You don’t get to manipulate me and then touch me. You don’t have any right to be anywhere near me.
“I don’t know who the fuck you think you are, but you need to get the hell out of my house. Now.”
“I didn’t manipulate you.”
“Wrong.” I lean in until my nose is inches from him. “You’re no better than your ex-wife. You deserve each other. Thank God I found out now, before I fell in love with you.”
He steps onto the porch and I slam the door shut, standing in the middle of the room, stunned.
Am I in an alternate universe? Am I asleep? Is this some stupid episode of Punk’d?
No, that show went off the air years ago.
I hear Simon’s car start and pull away, and I’m numb with pure anger.
“Serves me right,” I say as I march upstairs to my bedroom and begin unpacking my bags. “I knew from the beginning that he wasn’t forever. I knew it. And I let myself fall in love with him anyway.”
I shake my head, disappointed in myself, as I carry my underwear into the closet. “It’s better to find out that he’s a lying, manipulative piece of shit now. Who needs him? I don’t. I don’t need anything from him.”
My phone buzzes with an incoming text. If it’s Simon, I’ll smash my phone against the wall.
What a prick.
But it’s not Simon. It’s Van.
Have a blast in London! Take lots of pictures.
I smirk and reply, I’m not going. He dumped me and left.
I toss the phone on the bed and set to work unpacking the rest of my things and wiping him away from my life. I need him gone. Now.
If I let the anger pass without using it to fuel my need to wipe any trace of him out of my house, I’m afraid that I’ll crumple and not get back up.
That asshole.
“Don’t let him do this to you, Charly.” I stow my empty suitcase under my bed and strip the sheets off it, shoving them in the washing machine with jerky, angry movements. “He’s got the problem. Not you.”
I’m leaning over the bathtub, giving it a good scrubbing when I hear footsteps behind me.
“What the hell is going on?” Van asks.
“I’m cleaning.”
“I see that.”
Suddenly, Kate calls out from downstairs. “Where are you?”
“Upstairs,” Van yells back.