Meanwhile, Jace texted like he was doing me a favor. I arranged for my things to be picked up. You don’t need to be there. When he showed up with a friend, I had a printed inventory. Then: You can stay until the lease expires. I texted back: I’ll be there. Bring a list. Don’t make this hard.
You made it hard, Jace. Bring boxes. When he showed up with a friend, I had a printed inventory. Jace stared at it. “Are you kidding me?” “Nope. Start with the TV.”
His friend tried to joke, “Damn, Briar, intense.” “I’m accurate,” I said. Jace didn’t like that I wasn’t crying. He liked it even less when I said, loud enough for the hallway, “You’re not taking the laptop. I bought that before you moved in.” A neighbor peeked out. Jace flushed. Good.
I worked nights at a clinic, studied whenever I could, and finished my course without Jace’s money. Sometimes Murray’s driver took me from work to class when timing got tight. Murray never made it weird. He just made space.
Two months later, I passed my final assessment. I walked out shaking, not from fear, but from relief.
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