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I sped over to Ken’s house with my heart pounding, hands shaking, and thoughts racing.
He took my stuff.
That motherfucker took my fucking stuff!
I feel like I’m being sold into sexual slavery or something. How could my parents just sell me out like that? I finally date a guy with more mortgages than tattoos, and they’re ready to pony up a dowry. What a couple of assholes!
And Ken. If he thinks he can just make me move in with him, then he doesn’t know who the fuck he’s dealing with.
I won’t do it!
This is so not like him.
God, I miss him.
It’s only been four days, but it feels like four months.
No, wait. Fuck him!
He can’t just make me take him back. That’s not how this works. I make the rules, goddamn it. And my rule is that you have to tell me you fucking love me before you force me to be your concubine.
When I pulled into the driveway of my favorite place on earth, I noticed that the garage door had been left up. Ken’s little Eclipse convertible was parked on the left, and on the right was a big, open space where Chelsea used to park before she moved in with Bobby. I’d never parked in Ken’s garage before—or any garage for that matter—but I figured, if that asshole could take my stuff, I could take a spot in his garage.
I smiled as I pulled in, feeling a tiny surge of badassery.
Boundaries schmoundaries, motherfucker. This is my garage now.
As I got out of the car and headed toward the door that led into the kitchen, I decided that barging in and yelling obscenities was probably the best way to go. So I flung open the door and stomped into the kitchen with my chin held high, ready to jam my finger so hard into that smug bastard’s tie-covered chest that I poked his cold, dead—
“Ken!” I called out, swinging my head from left to right.
The TV was off in the living room. The lights were off too. But the blinds on the bay window were wide open, bathing everything in a pinkish-orange glow as the sun began to set behind the pines in the backyard.
“Ken?”
The sideways light danced and glittered across the edges of an assortment of stuff on Ken’s breakfast table, which was usually stark and spotless. Papers and tiny objects were lined up neatly from one side to the other, and right in the middle was a glass vase filled with velvety red roses. Ken would never buy flowers—“A waste of money. They’ll only die,” he’d say—but I recognized those blooms. They were the same ones I’d admired every time I went to smoke out in the gazebo. The ones that matched the color of Ken’s front door. He hadn’t bought those flowers; he’d grown them.
I leaned forward and smelled one fat blossom before letting my eyes roam over the painstakingly perfect row of items on the table.
The key I’d left behind Monday morning sat, untouched, in the exact same spot where I’d laid it down. I traced it with two fingers, missing the weight of it on my keychain. Right next to it, Ken had placed his spare garage door opener. Tied with a red bow.
Damnit.I smirked. I thought I’d stolen that parking spot.
Next to the remote was a single piece of paper, folded into thirds and placed with precision. Looking over my shoulder to make sure that I was still alone, I took a deep breath and peeled open the parchment. I only scanned the first three sentences when my uncertainty was transmuted into absolute, effervescent excitement.
Congratulations, Mr. Easton. Your application to join the College of Business Administration’s Accounting program has been accepted. We wish to welcome you to East Atlanta Technical College.
I read those first few lines over and over again, a swell of pride filling my chest and making it ache. If nothing else came from our relationship, if I turned around and drove away and left things undone forever, the time I’d spent with Kenneth Easton would not have been in vain. He was going to be the best goddamn accountant the world had ever seen. He’d just needed a little push.
I clutched the letter to my chest, letting my eyes drift to the stack of papers at the end of the row. They were fanned out in a perfect arc, a blue pen placed vertically beside them.
I reluctantly set down the acceptance letter and picked up the top sheet in the stack.
United States Postal Service Change of Address Form.
Then, the next.
Department of Motor Vehicles Change of Address Form.
