He’s quiet. What is there to say?
“When?” I ask.
“Today. Before.” He stops. “Before tonight.”
Before Enzo comes back. Before he walks into this apartment and finds it empty. Finds his mug in the rack and no explanation. No goodbye. Just gone.
“Okay.” The word comes out hollow. “Okay. I’ll pack.”
I turn toward the bedroom.
“Stevie.”
I stop. Don’t turn around.
“For what it’s worth,” Saul says quietly, “I’m sorry. I know that doesn’t help. But I’m sorry this is how it has to be.”
I nod. Can’t speak. Walk to my bedroom. And stand there, in the middle of Beth Taylor’s room, trying to remember how to breathe.
Packing doesn’t take long.
Beth Taylor didn’t own much. Clothes that never felt like mine. Books I bought to fill shelves. Kitchen supplies that got more use than anything else.
But there are other things. Things that matter.
Dario’s pen. I hold it for a moment. Run my thumb over the engraving. D.M. Cool metal warming against my skin.
The tie is there too. Blue silk. Still faintly smelling of cedar and bergamot.
And the shirt. His shirt. The grey one that I’ve slept in more nights than I can count.
I fold them carefully. Place them in my bag like the treasures they are.
I’m packing a crime boss’s accessories like they’re religious relics. Saint Dario of the Unlocked Door. Saint Enzo of the Burnt Eggs.
I’m building a shrine to men I can’t keep.
This is healthy coping. Very normal. My therapist would have thoughts. So many thoughts. Possibly a podcast.
I can hear Saul on the phone, his voice low and steady. “...non-standard relocation, yes. Given the circumstances... I’ll take full responsibility... no, she’s cooperating fully...”
He’s fighting for me. Arguing with supervisors, risking his career, all so I can have a bakery instead of another beige prison.
And I’m in here mourning two other men while wearing one of their shirts.
Enzo. I need more Enzo.
His mug.
I walk to the kitchen. Take it from the dish rack.
It’s just a mug. Cheap. Probably cost three dollars at some store I don’t remember. But it’s his.
And when he comes back tonight and I’m not here, his morning coffee will be in the wrong cup. And maybe that’s stupid to care about. Maybe in the grand scale of everything I’m losing, a three-dollar mug shouldn’t matter.
But it matters. Because when he reaches for it, muscle memory guiding his hand to the counter, and it’s not there?
He’ll know I took it when I left. That I wanted something of his to keep. That I’m probably somewhere right now, holding it, crying into the chipped handle like it’s a fucking engagement ring.
