Page 5 of The Promise Of You

Is she faking? He’s not that good.

When I’m close to throwing up, I go back into the kitchen on wobbly knees, shove my box with my fern in the pantry, the pink lingerie bag and the brown grocery bag in the trash, and quietly leave the apartment, taking the emergency staircase down to the street, blood swooshing through my ears, my mouth dry, my eyes wet.

I walk the streets for hours, trying to quiet my heart. Trying to shut down the thoughts in my head. When did I start meaning so little to him that he could do… that? Why am I feeling dirty and ashamed? Like I did something wrong. Something to deserve that. God! This has to stop.

And why did I leave the apartment instead of yelling at them? I wish I’d had the guts to throw them both out. I don’t like confrontation, and I always thought that made me a better person. Until now. My fingernails dig into the palms of my hands, forming pitiful little fists.

Eventually I end up at a coffee shop and wait until it’s my usual time to come home. I don’t have the energy for a fight. I’m too defeated.

We never have sex like that. He says he doesn’t like going down, that it’s gross. But he sure didn’t mind going down on another woman. In our bedroom.

I guess I’m the problem.

And then there’s the matter of losing my job.

My throat tight, I swallow my shame.

Eventually the sun dips over the buildings, and I walk into the apartment. Tucker is at his usual station on the couch, watching a game on TV, fully dressed, no trace of any woman. Not even a faint smell.

He looks so normal. Does this happen often? Like, regularly?

I sit on the armrest of the couch. His gaze cuts to me. “Hey,” he greets me and looks back to the game.

I wipe my hands on my thighs. “Hey… So. I was here earlier,” I say, struggling to keep my voice from trembling.

His face whitens. “Why were you here?”

I fight to control the quiver in my voice. “I live here.” Again, I can’t believe his nerve. Really? Why was I here? I stand from the armrest. “You have thirty minutes to pack your shit.”

“Come on, Chloe. It’s not what you think.”

I knew it! I knew he’d use that stupid phrase.

“Tux? She calls you Tux. You need more details?”

He stays silent but still doesn’t budge from the couch.

“Thirty minutes, Tucker. Get the hell out of here.”

He doesn’t bother looking at me. “It’s my place, Chloe.”

“What?”

“Lease is in my name.”

A-hole. Crapcrapcrap. “I’ll take it over,” I say with way more confidence than I feel. Sure, I already pay two thirds of the rent because Tucker makes way less than I do. But paying the extra third will be a stretch, and then there’s the matter of losing my job.

“No you’re not. Like I said, it’s my place. You can’t find it in your heart to be cool about what happened, feel free to go.”

“Cool about—” Is he effing nuts? I don’t want to argue about the blonde in our bed. I can’t believe he’d even—actually, yes, I can believe it. But I’m not leaning into the argument going that way, because I know what lies there: my responsibility. “You can’t afford the place,” I say instead. “Don’t be a dick.”

He stands and towers over me. “Gave you your chance, Chloe. You just burned it. Now I’m breaking up with you, and you got thirty minutes to get the hell outta my space.” He plops back on the couch and adds, “Sick of your shit.”

Sick of my shit?

What shit are we even talking about? Me working too much?

This argument hasn’t even started yet, and I can see how useless it would be. There’s nothing to discuss.

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