Page 3 of The Placeholder
I stare at my untouched salad, where a cherry tomato stares back like a tiny red eyeball judging my life choices. “Not yet."
“What do you mean by ‘not yet’?” She sets down her glass with enough force that the wine sloshes dangerously close to the rim, performing a crimson high-wire act. “Della, you can’t possibly—“that the wine sloshes dangerously close to the rim. “Della, you can’t possibly?—"
I’m going to pack his things and leave them outside,” I interrupt, the plan I’ve been fermenting all morning finally bubbling up like sourdough starter gone rogue. “Everything he owns fits in two hideous neon duffel bags anyway. Seven years and the man has fewer possessions than a minimalist monk with a Marie Kondo obsession.”
Liana’s expression morphs from righteous fury to the calculating precision of a chess grandmaster who’s just spotted a devastating three-move checkmate. “Change your locks, too. Today.” She wiggles her rainbow-tipped fingers. “I know a guy who can do it within the hour—works for celebrities and paranoid tech bros.” She snatches her phone from beside her untouched bread basket. “And a little birdie told me Felix is in town. Jared’s terrified of him ever since that Christmas party incident with the eggnog and the karaoke machine. We should text him and have him come over tonight?—”
"No.” I shake my head, nearly dislodging the hairpin that’s been stabbing my scalp since morning. “No, Felix."
“Why the hell not?” Liana’s bangles clatter like wind chimes in a hurricane as she gestures wildly. “Your brother has hated Jared since he caught him using your credit card to make a beer run. Felix would love nothing more than to fold that human participation trophy into origami and mail him back to whatever discount dating app you found him on.”
I torture a piece of lettuce with my fork, stabbing it repeatedly like it personally betrayed me. "I’ll handle it my way. We’ve been together for seven years. I owe him at least?—”
"You don’t owe him the lint between my toes." Liana’s voice ricochets through the restaurant like a pinball of rage, causing the man with the handlebar mustache three tables over to choke on his sparkling water. She hunches forward, her statement necklace now dangling dangerously close to the balsamic puddle on her plate. “Seven years of supporting his lazy ass while he plays video games in boxers with more holes than Swiss cheese and waits for someone ‘better’? Are you hearing yourself?”
The truth in her words stings like lemon juice in a paper cut, but something inside me—some final, fragile thread of denial that I’ve been clinging to like the last Twizzler in a movie theater—snaps with an almost audible twang. “You’re right,” I whisper, then louder, my voice finding its backbone, “You’re right."
“Damn straight I’m right.” She signals the waiter with the enthusiasm of an air traffic controller guiding in the last flight before a hurricane. “We need a bottle, notglasses. And the locksmith’s number. The kind who looks like he could break into Fort Knox with a paperclip.”
By the time we finish lunch—my salad mostly rearranged into abstract art, her plate clean as a whistle—I have a locksmith with a name like “Speedy Pete” scheduled for 3 PM and a clarity that feels like someone Windexed my brain. I don’t owe Jared an explanation. I don’t owe him a gentle exit. I owe myself the dignity of finally demanding what I deserve, gift-wrapped with a bow made of his gaming headset cord.
“What if he tries to claim some of your stuff?” Liana asks as we stand outside the restaurant in the afternoon sun.
I think of my velvet emerald sofa that Jared called “pretentious” but napped on daily like a pampered house cat, the hand-painted Italian pottery he used to store his disgusting protein powder. “Let him try. I have receipts organized in color-coded folders that would make my accountant weep with joy.”
"And if he shows up drunk tonight? Or with those pathetic puppy eyes that somehow manage to look both vacant and manipulative, like a golden retriever plotting tax fraud? You know how men get when they realize they’re losing their human ATMs.”
The image flashes with HD clarity: Jared on my doorstep, clutching bodega flowers still wrapped in crinkly cellophane, promises tumbling from his lips like Skittles from a torn package. But this time, the thought brings no ache, just the dull recognition you get when Netflix asks if you’re still watching a show you stopped caring about three episodes ago.
I’ll handle it,” I say, my voice steadier than a surgeon’shands. “Besides, I have you on speed dial—right between ‘Pizza Emergency’ and ‘Exorcist.’" I wiggle my phone. “And maybe Felix could just happen to drop by later? You know, purely coincidentally, armed with his hockey stick collection and that terrifying protein-shake growl?"
Liana’s smile unfurls like a cat stretching in sunlight—all teeth and satisfaction. “Now you’re cooking with gas, honey.” She hugs me with the ferocity of a koala that’s found its favorite eucalyptus tree. "You’re doing the right thing. You know that, right?”
Against her shoulder, which smells like expensive perfume and righteous vindication, I nod. “I know. I’ve known for years.” The truth has been hibernating inside me like a bear stuffed with denial sandwiches and what-if cookies.
As we part ways, my phone buzzes like an angry hornet trapped in my purse. Three missed calls from Jared and a text that reads:
Where are you? We could have dinner tonight.
The digital equivalent of a man who’d ask for a foot rub while the house was burning down.
For the first time in seven years, I don’t respond. Instead, I call an Uber and watch the little car icon zigzag through digital streets like a caffeinated ant. I head home to pack up the relationship trash—his novelty bottle opener shaped like a screaming mouth, the hideous plaid blanket that sheds more than a molting Saint Bernard. By tonight, Speedy Pete’s locksmith magic will transform my apartment into Fort Knox with throw pillows, Jared’s possessions will be exiled to the curb like rejected Survivorcontestants, and I’ll begin reclaiming what was always mine—my home, where I can finally hang that “Live, Laugh, Loathe” sign I’ve been hiding in my closet.
The thought brings not sadness but a helium-balloon lightness that makes me want to cartwheel down the sidewalk in my business casual. Seven years of waiting for someone to choose me, when all along, I just needed to choose myself—preferably with the enthusiasm of a kid picking the biggest cookie in the jar.
CHAPTER 2
DELLA
Felix sprawls across my emerald velvet sofa like a sequoia tree that somehow squeezed into designer jeans and a button-down. My brother’s massive frame makes my furniture look like it belongs in a dollhouse, his shoulders spilling over both armrests while his legs dangle comically off the end. “I still can’t believe you lived with that man-child for seven years,” he says, scratching at his perpetually five o’clock shadow with fingers the size of breakfast sausages. He shakes his head, his man-bun wobbling in disapproval. “Seven. Years. Della. That’s longer than most people keep houseplants alive.”
I swirl my wine glass, watching the crimson liquid create a tiny whirlpool. “Trust me, I’m well aware of the math.”
Liana snorts from her perch on my window seat. “We’ve established that our girl here was temporarily insane. The important thing is she’s finally seen the light.”She raises her glass in my direction. “To Della’s liberation day!”
Felix clinks his beer bottle against the coffee table with surprising gentleness for hands that could crush walnuts without trying. “To never have to hear about Jared’s ‘almost’ job opportunities again.”
I laugh despite myself. The three of us have been celebrating my newfound freedom for the past hour, the apartment feeling lighter without Jared’s emotional clutter. Speedy Pete worked his magic this afternoon, changing all my locks with impressive efficiency while sharing conspiracy theories about smart doorbells. I packed Jared’s belongings into his hideous neon duffels and two trash bags, leaving them neatly by the building entrance with a note that simply read: “Goodbye.”
