June Rainer, Unanswered

Chapter 3: The Lease

I didn't have my name on the lease.

The building manager had offered to add it when I moved in, but Owen said it would make the renewal paperwork complicated. At the time, I had been grateful he knew how to handle things. He had lived there for three years. His name was on the lease, the internet account, and the electric bill. Mine was on a gym membership, a streaming service, and a small stack of grocery receipts.

I paid him my share each month through an automatic transfer. I had assumed that made us equal.

On Friday morning, I went to the leasing office and asked what would happen if I moved out. The woman behind the counter, a freckled redhead named Beth, checked the account while I stood at her desk.

"Since you aren't listed as a tenant, we can't formally release you from the lease," she said. "But you can stop living there. Owen would remain responsible for the rent."

"I paid half."

"I understand. But our agreement is with him."

I had expected that answer. I still felt it like a bruise.

"Can you send me something in writing that confirms I'm not on the lease?"

Beth glanced at me. "I can give you a copy of the current lease."

"Thank you."

She printed it and marked the section with the names. Owen's name appeared alone. The address beneath it was the place I had called home for almost two years.

I took the paper to my car and photographed it. Then I called Tessa.

"I'm not on the lease," I said.

"I thought you were."

"So did I, mostly."

"Are you okay?"

"I'm not sure. I'm angry."

"That counts."

I stored the printed lease in a folder with my pay stubs and bank statements. Then I looked through my account history. Every month, there was a transfer to Owen labeled RENT. The amount had gone up twice. I had paid my share, the deposit, the utility bills, and most of the furniture. I had never asked for receipts. I had trusted his explanations and filed every question under "not worth a fight."

I didn't want to turn the relationship into an accounting exercise. But I did want to know what I had paid and what I had left behind.

I made a spreadsheet.

When I emailed Owen to arrange a time to collect the rest of my belongings, he replied within an hour.

Owen: I'm not giving you an itemized bill for our life together.

Me: I'm not asking for one. I'm asking to collect my personal things and confirm the final utility amount.

Owen: You can come Saturday at 10.

Me: I'll be there at 10.

Tessa offered to come with me. I said yes this time.

On Saturday, Owen was waiting in the living room. He had cleared one side of the couch, stacking my old magazines and the throw blanket I had bought in a neat pile. He'd also put my kitchen knives on the dining table.

"You brought backup," he said.

"Tessa's helping me carry boxes."

She nodded to him. "Morning."

Owen nodded back. Nobody raised their voice.

I carried my clothes from the closet into the hall. Tessa folded them into boxes while I packed the books from the shelf. We moved carefully, not because anything was fragile, but because every object was attached to a memory I had once believed would last.

The framed print from our first weekend trip. A blue mixing bowl I had bought at a yard sale. Two mugs that matched except for the hairline c***k in mine.

Owen stayed in the kitchen, watching us from the doorway.

When I reached for the blender, he said, "You don't need that."

"I bought it."

"I paid you back for half."

"I don't remember that."

He opened the drawer beside the counter and took out a folded receipt. "Here."

I read it. The blender's total was written in pen beside a grocery list. It wasn't proof of what he claimed, but it was proof that he had kept the receipt.

"Fine," I said. "You can keep it."

He rested the paper on the counter. "This doesn't have to be ugly."

"Then don't make it ugly."

His mouth tightened. For a moment, I thought he might answer. Instead, he went back into the kitchen.

While Tessa carried a box to the car, I found a small envelope of photographs tucked behind the books. The pictures were from the trip when Owen and I had rented a cabin outside town. In one, I was laughing with my hair in my face. He had taken it without telling me, and I had liked it so much I'd taped it to our refrigerator.

I put the photographs in my bag.

Near the door, Owen finally spoke. "You're really doing this?"

I looked at him. "I'm leaving."

"That's not what I asked."

"It's the answer I have."

He shook his head, like I had disappointed him by not offering a more comforting version. I carried the last box downstairs.

My deposit was gone. The money I had spent furnishing the apartment was mostly gone, too. I could have argued about some of it, but there was no clean way to separate our shared life into individual property. I chose to leave the blender and the couch. I chose not to fight over every bowl.

In the car, Tessa closed the trunk and looked at me.

"You okay?"

I looked through the windshield at the apartment building. Owen stood behind one of the windows, half-hidden by the blinds.

"No," I said. "But I'm sure."