Feeling much better, I go back into my room and try to zip my suitcase, but it’s too full. Of course, folding everything neatly would solve that problem, but I’m in no mood to mess with that crap. I stomp on the lid until everything is finally squashed enough to get it zipped up.
I grab the leather jacket that he bought me while on our honeymoon and throw it across the room. The thought of wearing it sickens me. In the closet, I find another one that I bought myself. I grab my suitcase. It’s a big one, stuffed full and heavy as hell. Thank God it rolls, or I’d have serious trouble. I drag it out into the hall to the top of the stairs. I turn it on its side and give it a good shove. It stops halfway, so I kick it the rest of the way down.
At the bottom, I grab the handle and roll it to the door. I look around at what I once thought was a beautiful penthouse, with its huge picture windows, boutique furniture, and state-of-the-art electronics. In my mind though, all I can see now are barred windows and a cold bed—the prison where I remained silent. Well, that’s a lie. I have caused a lot of hell, but nothing unwarranted. I can feel tears forming, and I try to fight them back. I really shouldn’t cry; he’s not worth it.
Losing the battle, I reach up to wipe away the tears and catch sight of the spectacular ring on my finger. It means nothing. I pull it off and slam it down on the console table next to the door, precisely where he sets his keys when he walks in. At least he won’t be able to miss that.
Taking a deep breath, I open the door and head to the elevator, pulling my bag behind me. There’s really no need to lock the door. Security here is better than in a Vegas casino, so the chances of the apartment being robbed are slim. Not to mention we’re over ten stories up. I press the button and step back to wait, fidgeting with my hair.
I don’t even know where I’m going. I mean, the logical place would be my aunt Raven’s, but I’m not sure that’s where I want to go. Instead of showering me with hugs and kisses, she’ll probably shower me with questions and opinions. Questions like, “What’s going on?” and comments like, “You really should talk to him.” I’m not in the mood for that kind of shit right now. Still, I have no plan at this point. I’ll have to figure something out to tell her. I need to think about what I want and what I’m going to do. I’ve been with Cal so long that I can’t remember what it’s like being without him. I’ve wrapped myself up in him, something no woman should do with any man.
The elevator has arrived. I drag my suitcase in and hit the garage floor button. I hate the way my stomach feels as it’s going down; it reminds me of the butterflies Cal used to give me when we first met. Finally, it stops and the door opens to the parking garage. Cal hates for me to come down here alone, but I always remind him there are cameras everywhere and Jeff, the security guard I’ve just waved at, watches everything like a hawk.
I head down to our parking spaces and over to the white Audi Cal bought me for my birthday. I remember getting up that morning, being blindfolded and led downstairs. There, I found a jewelry box and opened it to find a beautiful emerald necklace inside. I was so enamored with the necklace that I didn’t notice the car key—though I did wonder why he brought me to the parking garage to give it to me.
That was one of our good days, just a memory now. There’s no sense in fantasizing about those, dwelling on the past when I live in the present, even if the present is falling short. It’s only been six months since I became Mrs. Scott, and now I think the name is temporary.
How long do I hold on to those memories when they’re fading further and further away? I pop the trunk on my car, heave my suitcase in, and slam it closed. I take a deep breath as I get into the car and shut the door. I sit for a moment, leaning back and gripping the steering wheel. Suddenly, the enormity of what I’m doing washes over me and I lean forward to rest my head on the steering wheel.
“What am I going to do now?” I say softly to myself.
May 3rd 2008
May 3rd, 2008
“I can’t believe you really considered screwing him.” Angela chuckles as she wipes down the bar.
We’ve been doing inventory on all the alcohol, our regular routine before the club opens. Angela is the one who pulled a few strings to get me my job here. Her mother and my aunt Raven used to go to college together and, thankfully, stayed in touch, so when I moved here to the big city, I wasn’t just a nameless face with no one to call a friend. Angela got me this job and introduced me to Hillary, who needed a roommate to help her cover the rent.
“I know. I feel like I’m Hillary,” I joke, pulling the case of Patrón Tequila.
“Nah, Hillary would have fucked him right on the front door.” Angela chuckles.
“That’s what she told me I should have done. She said it would have ‘liberated me,’” I say, using air quotes.
Angela laughs and sighs. “Well, I say you only live once. But you shouldn’t do anything you’ll regret either.” Her tone goes from playful to serious over the span of the sentence. “So when are you going to see him again?” she asks giddily.
“I don’t know. I’m waiting for him to call. He hasn’t yet,” I admit grudgingly.
“After a kiss like that, he’s going to call. You need to think about what’s going to be your excuse to not screw him if he picks you up in a car.” She nudges me in the side, and we laugh before her attention turns to the door. “Look who’s entered the building.”
I look over to see Michael strolling in. How ironic—one of my biggest regrets walking right toward me.
“You know, for someone who doesn’t work here anymore, you spend an awful lot of time here. Shouldn’t you be out arresting criminals?” she mocks, snapping him playfully with her rag. He’s working a part-time security job now.
“And good afternoon to you too, Angie.” He smirks, walking past her.
“Well, it was. Then you got here,” Angela sings before heading to the back, twisting her coal-black hair in a faux bun and leaving us alone.
“Lauren, we need to talk,” he says, the playfulness in his voice turning serious.
I arch my eyebrow at him. “No, Michael. We don’t.” I walk past him, and I feel him following close behind me.
“Please,” he insists, grabbing my hand.
“Michael, we haven’t been on speaking terms for at least two months. What’s the big deal now?” I ask, snatching my hand back.
He doesn’t say anything for a moment, but then he blurts out, “I miss you. I want us to at least still be friends. Like you and Steven are. You guys stopped going out and you’re still friends!”
This time, both of my eyebrows go up. “Seriously? Steven and I went out a few times. We weren’t in a relationship, and he didn’t feel it necessary to screw some other girl while I was upstairs working,” I say more bitterly than I intended.
“Lauren, I don’t know what I was thinking that night. If you would just listen—”
“You’re talking a lot. But you’re not saying anything worth listening to,” I interrupt him.
“I messed up. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry!” His eyes are pleading.