The final paperwork for the house sale was done.
A young couple, the buyers, and I walked through the kitchen as I pointed out the new appliances. The last traces of my life here were fading.
A sudden, violent pounding on the front door startled us all.
I frowned, exchanging a puzzled look with Augustus, who had been waiting patiently in the living room.
I opened the door.
Jonah stood there, his face contorted with rage, Anisa tearful behind him.
His eyes, burning with a fierce anger, immediately landed on Augustus.
"Who the hell is he?" he growled, ignoring the buyers completely. "What's he doing at your house?"
I stepped between them.
"Jonah, this is Augustus de Jesus. Augustus, this is Jonah Hill."
The introduction was short and cold.
Jonah's face darkened further.
"Jonah, honey, please," Anisa whimpered, her voice trembling. "Stop it. I have a headache."
Jonah ignored her, his gaze fixed on me. "You came to my house, Claire?" he demanded, his voice tight. "My mom called me."
"Yes," I said flatly.
At this, Anisa immediately burst into fresh, loud sobs. She clutched Jonah's arm, burying her face in his bicep.
Jonah's anger exploded, hot and dangerous.
"Claire, what did you say to her?" he roared. "My mom just told Anisa she has to move out of the guest room! This is all your fault! Anisa has nowhere to go!"
His eyes were accusatory, venomous.
"I told you, my decision to stay was my decision. You dare try to hurt Anisa because of it?" He pointed a furious finger at me. "You call my mom right now and tell her Anisa is staying. Or else you'll regret it when school starts. Mark my words."
I stared at him, at the twisted rage on his face, at the fake tears sliding down Anisa's cheeks.
My head was pounding. I just wanted this all to be over.
"Fine," I said quietly. "I'll call her."
Jonah froze, his anger momentarily replaced by surprise.
My quick capitulation seemed to throw him off.
"What did you say?" he asked, suspicion in his voice. "Claire, what are you planning?"
I didn't answer. I simply closed the door in his face, leaving him and Anisa on the porch, their shocked expressions visible through the small windowpane.
Later, the house sale was finalized, the keys were handed over, and it was done.
I began my final sweep of the empty rooms.
Dust motes danced in the afternoon sun, illuminating the ghosts of my childhood like spotlights.
At the back of an old closet, I found a tin box. Inside, carefully wrapped in tissue paper, were all the birthday gifts Jonah had given me over the years: a small silver box at twelve, a delicate porcelain bird at fifteen, a quirky hand-painted mug at seventeen.
But one year was missing. My eighteenth birthday.
That was also the month we were working on our Stanford applications. We'd been so close then.
I remembered waking up that day, expecting his usual morning knock, a small gift, a "Happy Birthday."
Instead, he'd been frantic.
Anisa had called him, crying, saying she was struggling with her essay. He'd spent the whole day with her, helping her.
I'd waited all day. All night. The moon rose and set, but he never came.
The next morning, he barely looked at me, his eyes tired, his manner irritable.
He'd mumbled an apology, said he'd been busy, then launched into a tirade about how Anisa had never really celebrated a birthday, how hard her life was, how much she needed him there.
He never mentioned my birthday. Not once.
