Jeans and socks and boxers, t-shirts, shorts,
button-down shirts that Luke favors, I take everything out of the
dresser, the closet, pile it all on bed. “I’m not sure we can take
this much,” Luke tells me, picking up each item of clothing to fold
it to one side. “When I left my house, I just had the clothes on my
back. This…” He gestures at the bed with a bewildered expression on
his face. “I don’t think we can carry it all. Do you have a
bag?”
“No.” My reply is terse—I’m all cried
out. Kent wants to end things like this? Fine. I’ll play his game,
I’ll be the villain, fine. Let him think I’ve wounded him,
let him ignore my own scars, two years of living with a man
steadily drinking himself to death, that’s worn me down more than I
care to admit.
But you’re not mad at Luke, I
