I stuff the purple sweatshirt into the top box, the one marked “winter,” and wipe a tear from my cheekbone. Damnit, Damien, he could always reduce me to tears.
A movement from across the room catches my eye and I blink and look away. I definitely don't want to see him in his early-morning glory, his plaid boxers hanging loose from trim hips and his brown hair sloppy and sexy.
“What are you doing up?” he asks, his voice husky with sleep.
“Packing.” As if he can't tell.
“It's six A.M.” He runs a hand through his hair and squints his eyes.
“The sooner I start, the sooner I can finish,” I retort, throwing a brown cardigan over the purple sweater.
“I'll help, babe.” he says, his voice soothing.
I turn and glare at him, feeling heat rise in my cheeks. “You've helped enough, don't you think?”
He doesn't even have the decency to blush. “I'm sorry, Quinn. You know I love--”
I put my hand up, palm facing him, and cringe. “If you loved me, I wouldn't have found her in our bed, would I have?”
Damien takes a few steps toward me, and the only sound I can hear is the rustle of his cotton boxers and the soft padding of his bare feet against the hardwood floor of our second-story apartment. “It was a mistake, Quinn. How many times do I have to tell you?”
“Mistakes don't happen three nights in a row.” I turn my back to him and push the cardboard flap of the box down onto the clothes. “Mistakes don't scream your name over and over while I'm walking up the stairs, and you don't tell mistakes you wish you were marrying them instead of me.”
He nods, his lips pursed. He knows I'm right. Why bother trying to argue? “At least let me help.”
I shake my head. “I'm almost done.”
“Where are you going”?
I shrug my shoulders. “I don't know. But I'll call when I get there so you can send the rest of my stuff. Unless you changed your mind, and you want it all gone now.”
“Don't be silly, Quinn. You can't pack up four years in a day and fit it all in your little car.” He laughs like he just made a joke instead of a disconcerting statement about my life. “But really, Quinn. You're running out of money; I know you were thinking of finding a job after the wedding, if you couldn't get another book written soon.”
I ignore the jab at my career and look at the boxes before me. “I can finish the rest myself.”
“I'll make coffee,” he mutters, walking toward the open kitchen.
I watch him walk away, toward the countertop I painted last summer and the refrigerator covered with pictures of us. Four years of pictures, and not one memory that isn't painful. I wipe another tear from my face and scowl. “I'd rather do this alone”
He finishes the coffee in silence and retreats to the bedroom we've shared for three years. The door slams with a finality beyond my imagination. I guess it's finally over.
...More thoughts on Haven, plotting, Providence, and revising to come!
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