Chapter 4

Summer POV

Raymond backed his car right up to the bottom of the steps, cutting off the path between me and the street corner.

When the cab I had requested pulled up, I waved it away and bent down to get into his passenger seat.

Neither of us said a word on the ride home.

After a long silence, Raymond finally spoke up. "There was too much chaos back there. I didn't see you. I didn't leave you behind on purpose."

I stared out the window. "You don't need to explain."

"Your knee is hurt," he said, glancing at me through the rearview mirror. "I'll bandage it up when we get back."

"I'm fine."

"How could you be fine?" He frowned. "It's swollen like that. It's going to be black and blue by tomorrow."

I kept my face turned toward the glass, and he didn't say another word.

Back at the apartment, he dug out the first-aid kit and knelt down on one knee in front of me.

The moment the cotton swab soaked in iodine touched my skin, my leg flinched back.

"Does it hurt?" he asked.

"I'm fine."

"I'll be gentle." He slowed his movements down considerably. "Just bear with it."

I looked down at the back of his head.

This was the exact scene I had always yearned for: him kneeling before me, his eyes focused entirely on me.

A faint ember still lingered in my chest. I wanted to see if he could actually finish a single thing for me this time.

Before he could finish applying the antiseptic, his phone buzzed. Phoebe's name flashed across the screen.

He glanced up at me, then answered.

"Hello? Phoebe? Where are you?"

The voice on the other end was choking back sobs.

"What floor are you on? Someone's cornering you at the entrance?" His brow furrowed deeply. "Alright, I'm coming right now. Don't go anywhere."

Hanging up, he looked torn. "She said someone's harassing her outside. I need to head over."

"Then go." I didn't even lift my eyes from the book in my lap. "Go check on her. I won't be mad at you this time."

"But your leg..."

"I can put on the ointment myself." I turned a page. "Just go. Don't keep her waiting."

"Summer," he stared at me searchingly, "are you really fine?"

I raised my eyes, the corners of my mouth twitching slightly. "What could possibly be wrong with me?"

He paused by the door for a couple of seconds, glancing back as if wanting to ask something.

I knew he sensed something was off.

In the past, this would be the moment I shattered a glass, demanded he choose between us, and blocked the door in tears to keep him from leaving.

Her phone rang again on the other end, prodding him. He grabbed his keys and pulled the door shut behind him.

He didn't come back.

Alone, I slowly dabbed the rest of the iodine onto my skin.

The cold cotton swab pressed against my knee, and the swollen flesh still throbbed with a dull ache.

I listened as his car engine revved outside, fading into the distance until complete silence returned. Only then did I speak toward the empty doorway.

"Raymond, that was the twenty-first time."

I had kept count of every single time he made a promise to my face and walked away at the last second.

He promised to visit my mother with me, only to ditch me after receiving a single phone call.

On my birthday, he swore he would come home early, only to stumble through the door past midnight, drenched in someone else's perfume.

Those incidents added up to exactly twenty-one.

I kept track because I genuinely believed he would change.

I thought that once we were both calm, I could lay those twenty-one grievances out on the table, and if he looked at them and promised never to do it again, I would forgive him.

I wasn't going to wait anymore.

I dialed the moving company.

"Hello," I said. "I have an entire apartment of belongings to ship. Pack whatever can be sent, and throw out whatever can't. Don't leave a single thing behind."

"Understood, ma'am. We'll be there first thing tomorrow morning."

Hanging up, I dragged two empty luggage trunks out from the bottom of the closet.

The wardrobes were filled with items we had purchased together. I packed them away piece by piece, and took down every framed couple's photo from the walls.

Those photos were all taken because I had forced him to; in every single one, his chin was tilted up with cold detachment.

If even one remained on the wall, a momentary lapse of weakness might lead me to stare at it, finding yet another excuse for his behavior.

I picked up the photo of us by the beach, looked at it for two seconds, and face-planted it into the trunk.

"From now on, save your tenderness for Phoebe," I said, pulling the zipper shut. "And I'll save my money for myself."

The lid snapped shut with a crisp click.