Chapter 2

The whole walk back to the dorm, Becky didn't even care that she was wrecking the new heels she'd just broken in, half-jogging to keep up with me.

"Steven is a complete and total piece of shit—when he dropped to his knee for that scheming little snake, I wanted to slap him across the face! But you can't just marry someone out of spite, Rachel! You can't gamble with your life like that!"

I walked under the streetlights, watching my shadow stretch and shrink on the pavement. My voice came out so calm it surprised even me.

"I'm not gambling. And I'm not doing this to get back at him." I turned to her and smiled. "I'm really not upset. And the wedding is really happening."

That was the truth.

When enough disappointment piles up, the leaving is silent.

No hysterics. No tears. Not even anger—anger just felt like a waste of energy.

Back at the dorm, I pulled the suitcase out from under my bed and started packing.

Steven and I had planned to move into an off-campus apartment together right after graduation. I'd already moved most of my things over there last week.

Now I was going to take every last item back. No—not take back. Throw away.

The next morning, I skipped class.

I rented a U-Haul and drove straight to the apartment.

The moment I pushed the door open, the place was full of the future we'd planned together.

The Scandinavian couch—I'd picked it out. The vinyl record player on the wall—he'd bought it. The plants on the balcony—we'd potted them together.

I pulled out an oversized black trash bag.

The matching electric toothbrushes on the bathroom counter went in.

His half of the couple's pajama set in the closet went in.

The framed photo from our fourth anniversary—frame and all—went in.

Every movement mechanical, efficient, without a single pause.

As for the furniture too big to carry, I snapped photos and listed them on Facebook Marketplace.

[Brand new couch, half price. Must pick up by 3 PM today.]

When it was all done, I sat on the bare living room floor, took out my phone, and called the building manager.

"Hi, this is Rachel in 302. I need to terminate my lease. Deduct the penalty from my deposit."

A pause on the other end. "Are you sure, Rachel? Does Steven know about this?"

"He doesn't need to." I hung up.

Meanwhile, across campus at the frat house.

Steven was sprawled on a leather couch, flicking a lighter, while one of his brothers sidled up to him.

"Dude, I just saw Rachel listing your couch on Marketplace."

Steven's hand froze.

But a second later, he scoffed and tossed the lighter onto the coffee table.

"Let her." He leaned back, legs crossed, his voice dripping with the arrogance of a man who'd never been left.

"I've let the little stuff slide with her all along. But this time, she needs to figure out on her own that throwing a tantrum doesn't get her what she wants."

"But she said she's getting married within a week—"

"It's a bluff."

Steven cut him off, eyes dismissive. "Who else would she even marry? For four years, her entire world has revolved around me. Selling the furniture is just her way of getting my attention so I'll go crawling to her and smooth things over."

He pulled out his phone and opened Instagram.

The first post on his feed: Claire, thirty minutes ago.

A photo of a latte, the interior of Steven's car visible in the background.

[Thanks for the morning coffee, Steven. Ankle's feeling so much better~ ☕]

Steven double-tapped the heart, then tossed his phone aside.

"Give her a few days," he said with a cold smirk. "Once she's done with her little meltdown and figures out I'm not playing along, she'll come crawling back to apologize."

He thought he was holding all the cards.

He thought this was just another round of the usual couple's standoff.

What he had no idea about was that at the exact moment he liked Claire's post, I was already at the airline cargo terminal, checking in the Ragdoll cat we'd raised together for three years.

At three o'clock sharp, the buyer pulled up in a pickup truck and hauled the couch away.

I stood at the apartment door with my last suitcase and handed over the key.

The deadbolt clicked shut—soft, final.

Four years—along with every last expectation I'd ever had of Steven—locked behind that door for good.

I took out my phone, scrolled to an unsaved number, and sent a single text: [All taken care of.]

A few seconds later, the screen lit up. One word: [Good.]

I looked at that word, and for the first time, a real smile pulled at the corner of my mouth.