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"Yeah, I’m just hanging out. Why? What’s going on?"

There’s really no good way to ease into this.

"I’m leaving Delia."

Silence.

"I need somewhere to crash for a few days. You care if I take your couch?"

There’s a beat of total silence on the line before Colston clears his throat. "Damn. Yeah, of course, man. My door’s unlocked, and I’ve got cold beer in the fridge. Get your ass over here."

“I love you, Jenny,” I drawl in my best Forrest Gump voice.

He laughs. “Fuck off with that. Just get here.”

I end the call and toss my phone onto the passenger seat. Explaining this absolute clusterfuck to Colston is going to require a lot of beer. Preferably after I get some food in me and make the pounding behind my eyes calm the fuck down.

Tomorrow, I have a lawyer to call and a new place to find.

Right now, though, all I can think about is Goldie and whether she’s standing in front of her asshole ex telling him exactly what she thinks of him.

CHAPTER 9

GOLDIE

I shove my key into the front door of my house, bracing myself for a screaming match. Grant was supposed to pack his shit and leave last night, but I have no idea if he actually did it. Part of me fully expects to find him sitting on my couch, ready with some excuse for why he’s still here.

Except the house is completely quiet.

Grant’s gone, but he left a massive, petty-ass tantrum behind.

My favorite potted monstera is dumped over on the rug, dirt scattered everywhere. The couch cushions are on the floor, and he even emptied a bottle of red wine onto the kitchen counter and left the sticky puddle to dry.

I just stand there staring at it.

Oh, fuck him.

This is what he does instead of facing me? Trashes the house and runs?

What a fucking coward.

A month ago, I probably would’ve cleaned this up while getting more and more pissed off with every swipe of the paper towel. Then Grant would’ve come home, acted like I was overreacting, and somehow we would’ve ended up arguing about my attitude instead of whatever he did in the first place.

God, I put up with a lot of stupid shit.

Not huge things. Nothing that ever made me stop and think, Wow, this relationship is fucked. Just enough little comments and shitty moods that I got used to rolling my eyes, letting things go, and moving on because fighting about every single one sounded exhausting.

But standing here with a throbbing headache and shaky legs that still haven’t fully recovered from last night, I don’t feel sad that he’s gone.

I look at the dirt all over my rug, the cushions on the floor, and the wine drying on my counter.

No, I feel relieved.

Which is probably something I should unpack eventually.

Today, though?

I'm absolutely not cleaning up his man-baby tantrum.