And then I realize it’s me who’s the careless one because I should’ve called the church before I came here this morning, should’ve made sure John had actually gone into work and wouldn’t be doing what he is currently doing—namely, sitting on the couch with my afghan draped over him, watching boring morning television.

“She returns,” he says around a mouthful of cereal. He could eat cereal for every meal, I think, always the cheap, sugary shit they make for kids. Never brand names, so things like “Fruity Ohs” and “Sugar Flakes.” Whatever he’s shoveling into his mouth now has turned the milk a muddy gray, and I don’t even bother to hide my disgust as I ask, “Shouldn’t you be at the church?”

John shrugs, his eyes still on the TV. “Day off.”

Great.

He turns to say more then, and his eyes go a little wide when he sees me. “What are you wearing?”

I want to make some kind of joke about saving those lines for his internet girlfriends, but that would prolong this interaction and that’s the last thing I need, so I just wave him off and make for my room.

The door is open even though I distinctly remember closing it, and I press my lips together, irritated. But my bed is still made up, and when I open a drawer, all my underwear appears to be accounted for, so that’s a relief, at least.

Reaching under the bed, I pull out my battered duffel bag, and have already unzipped it before I stop and look around.

It’s not like I didn’t know my room was deeply sad. No matter what I did, it always looked grubby and just a little institutional, almost like a cell.

But now, after two weeks living in Eddie’s house?

There is not a single thing I want to take with me.

I want to leave all of this—the dullness, the cheap fabrics, the frayed edges—behind.

More than that, really.

I want to set it all on fucking fire.

When I walk out of the bedroom, I’m not carrying anything. Not the duffel, which I’d shoved back under the bed. Not my underwear, which John was now welcome to be as pervy as he liked with. Not even the little trinkets and treasures I’d taken from all the houses in Thornfield Estates.

John turned off the TV, and he now faces me on the couch, my afghan still on his upraised knees. He’s smirking at me, probably because he’s expecting me to ask for the blanket, and he’s ready to say something that just skirts the line, something that’s supposed to make me wonder if he’s being gross or not (he is).

He can keep that blanket, too.

“I’m moving out,” I say without preamble, shoving my hands in my back pockets. “I should be all paid up on rent, so—”

“You can’t just leave.”

Anger sparks inside my chest, but, right on the heels of it, there’s something else.

Joy.

I am never going to look at this asshole’s face again. I’m never going to sleep in this depressing apartment or take a sad shower under trickling, lukewarm water. I’m never going to dig money out of my pocket to hand over to John Rivers ever again.

“And yet I am leaving. Wild.”

John’s eyes narrow. “You owe me two weeks’ notice,” he says, and now I laugh, tipping my head back.

“You’re not my landlord, John,” I say. “You’re just some sad little boy who thought I’d sleep with you if you let me stay here. And you overcharged me for rent.”

There’s a dull flush creeping up his neck, his lower lip sticking out just the tiniest bit, and once again, I am so relieved that this is it, the last time I’ll ever have to talk to him.

But soon, people like John Rivers won’t even exist to me. He barely exists right now.

“I never wanted to sleep with you,” he mutters, his tone still sulky. “You’re not even hot.”

That would’ve stung once upon a time. Even coming from someone like John. I’ve always been aware of how completely plain I am, small, nondescript. And I’ve definitely felt it when I look at pictures of Bea, her dark, glossy hair swinging around that pretty face with its high cheekbones and wide eyes. That body that was somehow lush and trim at the same time, in contrast with my own straight-up-and-down, almost boyish body.

But Eddie wanted me. Small, plain, boring me.

It made me feel beautiful, for once. And powerful.

So I look at John and smirk. “Keep telling yourself that,” I say, then I turn and walk out.

I’m not sure hearing a door close behind me has ever been this satisfying, and as I walk back to the car, I actually welcome the slap of my heels, love how loud they are.

Fuck. You, I think with every step. Fuck. You. Fuck. You.

I’m grinning when I reach the Mercedes, and I grab my keys, pressing the little button to unlock the doors. It takes me a moment to realize that there’s a familiar red car parked just across the parking lot, and my first thought is that it’s weird anyone here has that nice of a car.

It’s not until Eddie is stepping out of the driver’s side and walking toward me that my brain fully absorbs that it’s his car, that he’s … here. In Center Point. In my shitty apartment complex.

Seeing him is so jarring that my instinct is to run away, to jump in my car (his car, my asshole brain reminds me), and get the hell out of here.

“Hey, beautiful,” he says as he approaches, keys dangling from his fingers.

“You followed me?” I blurt out, glad I’m wearing sunglasses so that he can’t see my full expression. I’m rattled, not just because it seems weirdly out of character for Eddie to follow me, but because he’s here. He’s seen this place now, this ugly little hole I tried to hide from him. Doesn’t matter that I’m leaving it all behind. The fact that he knows it existed at all makes me feel close to tears.

Sighing, Eddie shoves his hands in his back pockets. The wind ruffles his hair, and he looks so out of place standing in this parking lot, in this life.

That sense of vertigo gets stronger.

“I know,” Eddie says. “It’s crazy and I shouldn’t have done it.”

Then he gives me a sheepish grin. He’s not wearing his sunglasses, and he squints slightly in the bright light.

“But you make me crazy, what can I say?”

Even though the sun is beating down on us, I feel a chill wash over me.

Eddie is romantic, for sure. Passionate, definitely. But this … doesn’t feel like him.