He went quiet.
I pushed past him and walked into the bedroom to pack. He trailed behind me like a child who knew he'd done something wrong.
"I know I messed up. I really do. You can hit me, yell at me, anything. Just don't leave, okay?"
I ignored him.
"I cut things off with her. I mean it. She quit yesterday. We'll never talk again. Will you come back? Please?"
I zipped the last piece of clothing into my suitcase, pulled it upright, and turned to face him.
"Clay, do you know what I was thinking on that operating table?"
He stared at me.
"I was thinking that if I died right there, that would be fine. Nobody was waiting for me anyway."
His eyes went red.
"Don't cry." I grabbed the handle of my suitcase. "You don't deserve those tears."
What happened after that, I heard from other people.
After Juliana quit, she moved to another company. Clay went after her, waited outside her new office building, and got chased off by security.
He took an extended leave. Drank every day. Made a major mistake at work and got demoted.
A friend told me that when he was drunk, he'd mumble my name over and over, calling himself a bastard, saying he deserved it.
I listened. Felt nothing.
Not hatred. Just nothing.
That light on the operating table had been so bright, it burned something out of me.
It was June now.
I'd started a new job, far from that apartment. My new coworkers didn't know my past. All they knew was that I was single and didn't like talking about relationships.
Yesterday a guy from the department next door added me on social media, said he wanted to get to know me.
I accepted. Didn't really chat.
It wasn't that I didn't want to start over. I just wasn't in a rush.
I had to let the scar heal first.
Clay texted again yesterday. A long message. I deleted it before I finished reading.
He asked if we could meet one more time. Said he was sorry.
There was nothing to be sorry for.
I was the one who spent five years before I finally saw him for what he was.
Oh, right. I forgot to mention.
The blood on the operating table that day. There was a lot of it. The doctor said if I'd come in half an hour later, it could have been life-threatening.
Clay didn't know any of that.
He didn't need to.
The day I moved into the new apartment, I threw away that strand of hair.
It had been tucked inside my journal for almost six months. By the time I pulled it out, it had turned yellow.
I held it up to the light by the window, then opened my fingers and watched it drift into the trash can.
Like closing a chapter for good.
The new place was small, barely four hundred square feet, but the windows faced south.
In the afternoon, sunlight poured in and pooled on the floor. I stood there watching that patch of light for a long time.
My phone rang.
Mom.
"Lydia, honey, Chloe Chavez's daughter told me you moved?"
"Yeah."
"What's going on with Clay? Aren't you two engaged?"
I leaned against the windowsill. The sun warmed my back.
"We broke up."
"Broke up? Why? You've been together five years. You bought a place together—"
"Mom." I cut her off. "He was seeing someone else."
Silence on the other end. A few seconds.
"That son of a bitch." My mother's voice changed completely. "You sit tight. I'm coming to Graystone City tomorrow. I'm going to give him a piece of my mind."
I almost laughed.
The first time Clay came to the house, my mom had held his hand and said, "What a good boy. I'm trusting you with my Lydia." Now he was a son of a bitch.
"You don't have to, Mom. I'm fine."
"Fine? You lost a baby and that's fine?"
I froze.
How did she know?
"Chloe Chavez's daughter is a nurse at that hospital. She told me. Lydia, something that serious and you didn't tell your family?"
My mouth opened. Nothing came out.
"That's enough. Don't worry about it. I'll be there tomorrow."
