2: 2
Back at the apartment we'd shared, I pulled out two suitcases right away.
I started packing my things.
There wasn't much, really.
Paul had bought the place, and every inch of the decor had been done to Diana's taste.
Back then I'd said I wanted a warm living room in natural wood tones.
Paul had insisted on a cold black, white, and gray scheme instead.
I only found out later that Diana had posted a line on her feed: "Black, white, and gray — that's the most sophisticated kind of romance."
I stuffed my clothes and everyday things into the suitcases.
Our engagement photo was still sitting on the table.
In it, Paul's smile was forced, his eyes not even on the camera.
Diana had run a fever the day of the shoot, and he'd spent the whole time on his phone, ready to bolt to the hospital at any second.
I laid the frame face-down on the table.
My phone buzzed.
It was the guys' group chat with Paul. I'd always been in it.
Tristan Whitney had posted a photo.
In it, Diana was propped up in a hospital bed, holding a cup of hot water.
Paul sat at the bedside, peeling an apple for her, his focus so complete it was enough to make anyone jealous.
Tristan's caption read: "Nobody takes care of a woman like Paul. Look at how nice he peels that apple."
A string of comments followed underneath.
"His wife's not mad, is she? Paul did drop everything and run over here on her."
"Nadia's so easygoing, she'd never hold anything against Diana."
"Right, Diana's the apple of Paul's eye. Who'd dare cross her?"
I looked at those glaring lines of text.
Once, seeing this would have hurt, and I'd have fought with Paul over it.
Paul always blamed me for being childish, for embarrassing him, for pinching over every little thing.
Now it only struck me as absurd.
I opened the group settings and left the chat.
Then I blocked every one of them.
By the time I finished packing, it was dark out.
I set the keys on the shoe cabinet by the door.
Beside them, the three-hundred-thousand-dollar engagement ring.
The lock clicked shut.
I wheeled my suitcases into the elevator.
I'd just left the complex when Paul called.
I hit answer.
"Nadia, you're not home?"
There was a trace of weariness in his voice, and a note of entitlement.
"I just bought your favorite crab-filled dumplings. Where'd you run off to?"
"I moved out."
I stood at the curb, raising a hand for a cab.
The line went quiet for a couple of seconds.
"What are you sulking about now?"
Paul's voice shot up in an instant.
"So I didn't come to your dress fitting today. Is that really worth running away from home?"
"Diana had acute gastritis, she nearly perforated. Was I supposed to leave her alone at a time like that?"
"Didn't I come back to make it up to you? I went all the way to the South Side to buy you those dumplings!"
"Nadia, can you not always be so petty?"
I listened to him lecture me, righteous as anything.
Not a flicker of feeling in me. I almost wanted to laugh.
"Paul, let's break up."
"The wedding's off. I've already returned the dress."
"The ring and the keys are on the shoe cabinet."
With that, I hung up.
A cab pulled up in front of me.
I loaded the suitcases in.
"Southridge Manor, please."
Southridge Manor was the single's apartment I'd bought for myself. It had been sitting empty.
The car pulled away.
Paul called again, insistent as a summons for the dead.
I switched the phone off.
The night streamed backward past the window.
Three years of us, ended for good in that moment.
I didn't shed a single tear.
There was only relief, endless relief.
