Page 123 of The Wrong Groom

But I will have to leave here, I think, my thoughts spiraling as I begin to panic. The idea of packing up my things, leaving the house that has become my home, threatens to send me over the edge of despair.

This house isn’t just a place. It’s become a symbol of everything I thought I could have. A life filled with warmth, with love, with family.

“I got you an apartment in the city,” he continues. “Close to your workshop. I’ll have your belongings brought over to your new place.”

There’s an extra layer to the hurt as I realize that despite everything, despite what he’s doing, he’s still taking care of me. Even as he ends things, he’s laying down a cushion to soften my landing. I don’t know whether to be grateful or furious, and ultimately, I can’t manage either emotion.

All I feel is numb. Stunned.

I turn away from him. I can feel his eyes resting on me. Waiting for me to do something, say something.

There’s only one thing I can do.

I leave the kitchen, my legs heavy and wooden as I drag myself up the stairs. In the bedroom, my things are scattered all over the place. My book on the nightstand, my moisturizer on the bathroom sink, my clothes in the hamper.

It’s impossible to fully untangle my life from Gabriel’s. I’m too enmeshed in this place, in him. I pick up the book from the nightstand and hold it for a moment, staring at the dog-eared page where I left off last night. I can’t even remember what I was reading.

I throw open a suitcase and pile clothes into it haphazardly, not bothering to fold anything. Every once in a while, as I pack, I glance over at the door, hoping to see Gabriel there. Hoping I’ll hear his footsteps as he races up the stairs, his voice as he begs me to stay.

He doesn’t. I’m alone.

I move on to the bathroom, grabbing my toiletries and shoving them into a small bag. Every item feels like a relic of a life that’s slipping through my fingers. The sight of my toothbrush next to his, the way our towels hang side by side.

No matter how many items I toss into the suitcase, the room doesn’t feel any emptier. It’s as if the space itself is refusing to let me go, clinging to the echoes of a life I desperately wanted to build here.

I sit down on the edge of the bed, numbness spreading through my limbs. My world feels like it’s crumbling.

It takes a long moment to compose myself enough to close the suitcase. Standing up, I take one last look around. The bedroom, once filled with warmth and hope, now feels cold and unfamiliar. My gaze lingers on the bed, and there’s a pang in my chest so painful that I have to tear my eyes away.

I descend the stairs slowly. Gabriel is waiting in the foyer. He looks me up and down, his lips pursed.

“That isn’t everything,” he notes.

I shake my head. “I don’t think so. I…”

“I’ll have the rest of your things sent over tomorrow.”

There’s a finality to the way he says it. It’s the same tone he uses to end a meeting, or hang up on a work call. My throat feels constricted, and I can’t force myself to speak.

For a moment, our eyes lock. His gaze is coolly impassive, betraying nothing, although I think there might be a glimmer of some deeper feeling in his eyes.

Tell me to stay, I beg silently. Go on. Tell me you changed your mind. Tell me this isn’t happening.

Just tell me to stay.

He looks at me for several seconds without speaking. Then he says, “I called a car for you. It’s waiting out front.”

And with that, my last shred of denial is ripped away. This isn’t a misunderstanding or a moment he’ll take back. He’s made up his mind.

I swallow hard, willing myself not to cry. Not here. Not in front of him.

Without another word, I pull my suitcase toward the door. My steps feel robotic, like my body is moving on autopilot while my mind screams at me to stop, to turn around, to fight for us. But I can’t. Not when he’s already given up.

At the door, I pause and turn back. He’s still standing there, his hands clenched at his sides, his expression unreadable.

“Goodbye, Gabriel,” I whisper.

He doesn’t respond.