“Take a bag,” I said, my voice steady now in a way that startled me. “You’re leaving. Tonight.”
“Stella, no. Don’t do this. I love you.”
I walked past him, opened the closet, and yanked his black duffel from the top shelf. I tossed it at his chest. “Pack the basics. You can come back later to get the rest. You’re not sleeping here.”
He stared at me like he didn’t know me. “You’re serious.”
“I am.”
His jaw quivered. He looked down at his bare chest, at the beer he still held, as if it had just appeared there. He set it on the table, the bottle clinking against another.
Without another word, he went to the bedroom. Drawers opened and shut. Hangers scraped the rod. He emerged ten minutes later in a hoodie and jeans, shoes unlaced, bag slung over his shoulder.
“Where am I supposed to go?” he asked.
“I don’t care,” I said. “Call Mike or Jason. Call whoever has been here with you all this time.”
He swallowed. “I messed up.”
“Yeah,” I said. “You did.”
He stood at the door for a long beat. “Stel, please.”
I stared at the stain on the rug I had chosen last spring. “Goodbye, Evan.”
He opened the door and stepped into the night. It clicked shut behind him, and I exhaled for what felt like the first time in months.
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