Page 7 of The Way I Hate Him
“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.
