He’s cruel.
He’s rude.
He’s inconsiderate.
He’s . . . as Maggie put it so eloquently, he’s the ick.
And I can’t believe I’m finally seeing it. Talk about rose-colored glasses. Cassidy never liked Matt. Maggie has never liked him. Ryland tolerated him, and Aubree told me to dump him back in high school. It’s taken me this long to realize what kind of character he has, so what the hell does that say about me?
After a bout of silence, he stands from the couch, presses his hands into a triangle, and says, “Anyway, I’m moving out, so you’re going to have to grab your stuff and get it out of here.”
“You’re moving? You didn’t plan on telling me?”
“I did. I’m telling you now.”
Nearly growling with frustration over my stupidity for liking this man, I push past him, stiff-arming my hand into his shoulder to get him out of the way, and grab an empty box on the couch.
“Hey,” he bemoans as he rubs his shoulder. “You don’t need to get physical.”
“That was barely on the blip of what I could do to you, Matt, and unless you want to find out the full extent of my physicality, I suggest you give me ten minutes to myself to grab my shit and leave.”
He slowly nods, eyes on me. “So I’m guessing you won’t want to be friends with me after this?”
Add moron to the list of things that Matt is.
Moronic ick.
Yup, couldn’t have said it better.
“Friends?” I scoff. “Matt, I’ll be spending the next year of my life manifesting the shit out of you losing your testicles by an inmate you meet on your first day in jail after committing one of your felonies you seem to find joy in.”
His face falls flat. “Don’t you fucking dare.”
I press my fingers to my temples and squeeze my eyes tight like a child. “Thank you, universe, for introducing Matt to Homer, the inmate with the vise grip, and popping Matt’s testicles right off his body.”
“Stop that,” Matt yells, pulling my hands from my head.
“It’s out there, beware.” I twiddle my fingers at him.
“You know, I’m glad I broke up with you. You’re all kinds of fucked up.”
“Ha, pot calling the kettle black, Matt.”
With my box back in my hand, I move toward the bedroom, and before entering, I look over my shoulder. “Ten minutes. Get out of my face, or I’ll call my brother, and he’ll take care of you for me.”
Knowing Matt is absolutely terrified of Ryland, he descends the stairs in a hurry, shutting the door behind him.
What a fuckwit.
I’m not entertaining enough . . . who says that to another human being? Let alone someone they’re supposed to love. The standards these days, sheesh.
I sigh and lean against the doorway of the meager bedroom, staring into the nearly empty room, with just a few of my things on the unmade bed as well as a box full of his possessions. He’s been planning this all along and couldn’t have even given me a heads-up as I drove here. My biggest concern in seeing him was that he showered, and now . . . this is what I’m dealing with.
You’re better off.
You didn’t even love him that much either. The past couple of months, he’s shown his true colors. He wasn’t there for me like a boyfriend should have been while I dealt with losing Cassidy. I blamed it on his work schedule, when in reality, I should have blamed it on his lack of concern.
As much as my pride might be hurting at the moment, I know deep down this is probably for the best.
Doesn’t make me any less bitter, though. Nope . . . I’m going to ride that bitter train for as long as I can.
I move into the bedroom, set my box on the bed, and start piling my items in it.
Oh, how nice of him, giving me all the pictures he has of us together, as if I’d want the reminder of his idiotic face.
No, thank you.
I toss the pictures in the trash and then sift through the rest of the junk he assumed was mine.
Some cosmetics.
A book I bought for him that he never read because heaven forbid, he does something other than look at his phone.
A broken iPhone charger. Pleasant.
A few pens from different hotels he’s stayed at. What on earth? Toss.
A pair of his boxers. Is he for real?
And two of my shirts that I will in fact be keeping because they’re vintage rock band shirts, and I’ve been looking for these. But the rest, mainly the boxers and the pens, can be shoved into his box.
Speaking of his box . . .
Curious as to what he considers his, I thumb through the box that he has marked as his. Let’s see what he has in here . . . Oh . . . oh my, would you look at that. These aren’t his things. These aren’t my things, no . . . these are his boss’s things.
A signed Hayes Farrow album, his first. A hat that looks like his. Some T-shirts. I move aside the shirts and find a few bottles of tequila—unfortunately, a drink I know Hayes likes to consume. What is this? Some sort of fanboy box? What the hell is Matt doing with all these things?
I paw through it a little bit more, and then a flash of gold . . . the Grammy.
Holy crap.
I pull it out of the box and examine it.
Best New Artist: Hayes Farrow.
I remember seeing him accept this on stage. He was wearing a black suit with a white button-up shirt, the first three buttons undone, showing off the leather necklace with a silver pendant he wears everywhere. He combed his hand through his hair in disbelief as he stared down at it and thanked his grandma for buying him his first guitar.
And then . . . Matt and I stole it.
Well, I didn’t really steal it. I was an accomplice. I held the door open for Matt. I wasn’t sure what he was doing until we were in the car, and he pulled it out of his suit jacket.
I’ve felt bad knowing Matt has had it even though Hayes Farrow is the scum of the earth.
Even the scum of the earth deserves their well-earned trophies.
Eyeing the box of my things and the fanboy box, I make the executive decision. I toss my shirts in the fanboy box along with the Grammy, and as I clutch it close to my chest, I head toward the staircase.
There can’t possibly be anything in this apartment that I care about—oh wait, my puzzles.
I pause in the living room and set the box down. Confused by the liquor bottles Matt collected, I pull them out of the box, making some room, and put them in the box on the bed I left behind. I then open the cabinets under the TV and spot three of my puzzles stacked neatly together.
Oh noooo, I’m not leaving my puzzles with Matt. Grant him hours of entertainment? No fucking way.
And he said I wasn’t entertaining. Clearly, he forgot about these purchases.
I slip my puzzles into my box, then head back down the stairs and open the door to the outside. Matt stares down at his phone—shocker—while sitting on the stone wall that encases the parking lot behind the buildings. He glances up. “That was quick.”
“It smelled like you in there, and it was sickening. The quicker I could leave, the better.”
“You used to like the way I smell,” he says, for God knows what reason. Maybe he’s starting to have regrets.
“Well, things change. Just like you changed your feelings about me, your signature scent has also changed. Quite musky smelling if you ask me, like an old bottled-up fart.”