“If money’s so tight, why’d you sign up for the retreat?” His entitled tone—his gall to suggest I shouldn’t spend my hard-earned money on myself—snapped something deep inside.
“Max, this isn’t working for me.”
“What isn’t?”
“This!” I gestured between us. “You and me. It’s probably best if you move out this weekend while I’m away.”
At least he put down the sandwich for a second. “You’re not serious, are you?”
“I am.” I was done. Done, done, done.
“Babe! Don’t overreact. I’ll pay you back for the sandwich.” He rested his elbows on his knees and looked up at me with those big blue eyes, his expression all soft and sad. For a second I almost caved. That adorable man I’d met two years, two months, and fifteen days ago shone through all the ick, and my heart hesitated.
“It’s not about the sandwich. It’s about having to pay for nearly everything we do because I have two jobs and you have none. It’s the way you lie around in your underwear and watch reruns instead of working on a story or poem, or at least doing some housework so I don’t have to. It’s that beard and the hair that’s so overgrown you look like Mo.”
His brows rose. “But we have fun, and the sex is still great.”
He had me there. The man knew his way around my body like nobody ever had before, and he was still a thing of beauty. If he’d cut his hair and shave, he could probably get work as a local model or something. “I’m turning thirty soon and I need a real partner, not a boy toy.”
I didn’t know a lot, but I did know that a relationship should make you grow. My dad had once mused that he’d had one old love who’d lit him up like a firecracker yet also left him burned out. Then my mom had come along—steady and assured—to dust him off and help him become his best self. Max and I hadn’t done that for each other in quite some time.
“Ouch. You can be harsh, you know.” He picked up his sandwich and took another bite, brow creased. “You really want me out? That’s it? You’re done and I get no say?”
I rose above a petty quip about it being a lot like how I’d had no say in the plans he’d changed today. It wouldn’t have been a fair comparison. We’d enjoyed a lengthy, intimate relationship and shared some memorable times together. Yet when I searched my heart for even the smallest ache, I couldn’t find it. The past few months had proven that together we would never evolve. “I’m sorry for being harsh. I think maybe this has been coming for a while, and my going away for the weekend gives us the perfect time for a clean break.”
He slouched against the cushions and locked his hands behind his head. “You’re gonna miss me when I’m gone.”
I wouldn’t deny there might be some nights when I’d miss him, but I wouldn’t miss all the little things that bugged me, and I literally couldn’t afford to stay in this relationship. I didn’t need a man to define me, and everything about this conversation reinforced that giving Max the boot was step one in changing my life. “Maybe.”
“Who gets Mo?”
The air left my lungs. “Mo is mine.”
“Why’s he yours? We got him together.” He crossed his arms now, like he might actually fight me about this, of all things.
His sudden love for Mo only made me angrier. “I bought him. I’ve paid all his vet bills, walk him every day, and feed him. All you do is lie around with him on that couch. Mo is my dog.”
“He’ll miss me, though.” Max cast a soulful gaze Mo’s way.
That stopped me. In a way it would be like a divorce, except unlike with a kid, we couldn’t explain to Mo why Max wouldn’t be around anymore.
Mo was curled up on his little dog bed, watching us both. “Well, I guess you can visit him and take him for walks now and then if you want.”
That didn’t thrill me, but maybe it would be best for Mo. Truthfully, Max’s taking me up on the offer was about as likely as him getting a job anytime soon.
Max narrowed his eyes, but just as he had no resilience when it came to a career, he also had none for our relationship. Quitting was simply his thing. “Fine. I’ll be gone by Sunday afternoon.”
Without another glance, he stretched back out on the sofa, grabbed his second sandwich, and turned up the volume right as Frank “The Tank” tells Blue he’s his boy.
Well, that was that. I pushed off the table and went to the bedroom without another word.
I flopped backward onto my mattress and stared at the ceiling, waiting for tears or doubts or something to take over.
Nothing.
Was this a good sign, or had I simply used up all my tears on my dad? I wasn’t sure, but it seemed like evidence that I’d done the right thing. I could pack my bag for my trip. Or maybe I should try to catch up with my mom and sister now that I had the time.
I rolled onto my side with a groan, coming face-to-face with one of my favorite family photos. We’d taken our annual family summer trip to Hilton Head—the one real splurge my dad had made sure we enjoyed every year. We had a tradition of having lunch at a little open-air cabana bar and restaurant called Coco’s on the Beach.
Between the deck and the volleyball court in the sand stood a tall pole with colorful arrow-shaped signs pointing in different directions. Each one was painted with the name of a different city somewhere on the globe, along with the mileage to get there. We’d dream about all the places we might go, and after high school I’d had the chance to see many. In this picture, our whole family is standing around that sign, smiling at the camera. My dad has his hand on my shoulder, and if you look closely, you can see Amanda holding my hand. I must’ve been only five or six—young enough that she hadn’t given up trying to be my second mother. At the time, I’d felt smothered by her attention, but looking back, I’d also felt loved.
I grabbed my phone and called my sister, but it went to voice mail. A heaviness pressed on me, but I couldn’t tell if it was from looking at that picture of our family that would never again be whole or from the fact that I’d disappointed my mom and sister today.
They loved me in their way even if they couldn’t love and accept me as I was. My dad had, though, and to honor his memory and wishes for our family, I couldn’t continue to drift out of their lives as I’d been doing.
After the beep, I said, “Hey, it’s moi. Surprise! My plans have changed and I’ve got a little time. If you get this message, let me know where you are and I’ll try to catch up.”
I hit “End,” my feet restlessly kicking the end of my bed. The small bedroom seemed claustrophobic, but I didn’t want to talk to Max. Not that I could avoid him in here, either, where his dirty laundry, sandals, and other items lay about. Rather than take a match to it all, I decided to organize some of his things to help with his packing. Hauling myself off the bed, I then went to the armoire to get to the vintage albums my dad had left me in his will.
Some were fairly valuable, like the Beatles collection box set from 1982, valued at roughly a thousand bucks. Or the Led Zeppelin first pressing with the turquoise label, which should net around eight hundred or so dollars. U2’s Joshua Tree collection box set from 1987—maybe worth six or seven hundred. Then there were others worth less than one hundred dollars. But each one had infinite sentimental value.