Page 30 of Playing Dirty
I barked a dry laugh, mostly just to keep from choking. “God, you’re dramatic.”
“And you’re avoiding the obvious.”
I put my sandwich down, my appetite gone. “I need the money.”
Lilly blinked. “For what?”
“A car,” I said, almost under my breath. “I’m tired of using his rental. I’m tired of depending on him for everything. It’s stupid.”
She sat back in her chair like I’d just told her I had a second head.
“You just said something real,” she whispered.
I rolled my eyes. “Shut up.”
But it was real. And it was the first time I’d said it out loud.
And for a split second, it felt like air coming into my lungs after holding my breath too long.
Freedom. Or something like it.
The last customer had left twenty minutes ago, but I was still in the office, straightening things that didn’t need straightening.
Matt’s chair. His pens. The stack of invoices I’d file tomorrow.
His scent was starting to fade from the room, replaced by toner and lemon-scented cleaner. I used to find comfort in the way he left things just a little crooked—like it meant he’d be back to fix it. Now, all it meant was that I was the one doing the fixing.
I wiped a fingerprint from the edge of his monitor. Not because it mattered. Just because I could.
Then I sat down in his chair—mychair—and pulled out my phone.
The screen lit up. Still no new messages.
I tapped open the Notes app and stared at the blinking cursor for a long moment before typing:
— Look for apartments
— Search for used cars
— Call vet for Pickles
The words sat there, neat and ordinary. No drama. No heartbreak. Just logistics.
I hesitated, then typed one more line:
—Don’t wait for him
I stared at it. My thumb hovered, and then I deleted it.
Because I didn’t need a list to tell me what I already knew.
I wasn’t waiting anymore.
I shut off the lights one by one, the store dimming behind me in stages like a curtain falling after a long, strange play. The hum of the soda cooler was the last sound to go.
The front door clicked shut behind me. I locked it, tugged twice out of habit. Solid.
The air outside had turned cool; the kind of crisp that settled into your lungs and made you feel small—in the best way. The parking lot was deserted, and my car sat under the streetlamp as if it had been waiting, its headlights faintly fogged at the edges. Comfortably familiar.
