Chapter 1:
Brody aggressively paces the hallway of our tiny split-foyer house. I cringe as he rakes his hands through his curly brown hair and lets out a frustrated sigh. Anger and tension are radiating off his body like blurry lines surrounding a campfire.
I turn away from him because I can’t stand seeing him like this. So hurt. So broken. A sadness creeps over me as I look around our home we built together. I painfully take in my last moments here. I can’t believe this is the last time I’ll be sitting on this very couch. Four years ago, we picked it up off the side of a curb. Sure, we may have been one step away from being labeled dumpster divers, but we knew it was nothing a $40 carpet shampooer couldn’t fix. We were senseless like that together, and it was great.
Brody didn’t mind my obsession with picture frames. I'm always infatuated with finding the wackiest frames I can. I frequently receive them as gifts from friends, family, and even coworkers. I’m famous for putting unconventional pictures in frames. I have a picture of Brody sleeping on the couch, and one of me with my three nieces, eating mashed potatoes. My favorite is a mustard-colored pleather with tiny black seahorses glued around the edges. Inside the frame is a picture of Brody and me on a four-wheeler. I’m facing backward, straddling him while his arms grip the handles. He’s biting my neck as I laugh. We were so happy. So innocent. So perfect.
I love how candid photos show more about one’s life and personality than posed pictures. My heart sinks as I realize none of these pictures will be going with me.
“How can you do this, Fin?” he barks, spinning back on his heels to stride down the hallway again.
Still sitting on the couch, I stare at my hands in stony silence, swallowing big gulps of air while he adjusts to the news I just dealt him.
“How can you need time?” he throws at me in a mocking tone. “Away from me?” He trudges swiftly across the living room. In only four paces, he’s on his knees, directly in front of my face, gripping my cheeks between his soft, large hands.
“You can’t mean this, Fin. You can’t!” his voice cracks as he says my name and his expression melts from anger to desperation.
“Brody, don’t.” I state, pragmatically. “I have to. I told you I can’t do this anymore.”
“THIS IS US!” he booms, loudly, while turning my face back to look into his eyes. “You can’t do us? That kills me, Fin—it kills me!”
“This is what I need, Brody. I’ve explained everything. There’s nothing more to say. I told you this isn’t up for discussion.” I've been practicing these very words in the mirror for the past week, fixing my expression to look strong, and not insecure. The last thing he needs is to receive mixed signals from me.
Brody looks down and appears to be collecting his thoughts. As his gaze comes back up, his eyes rove quickly over my whole face. I know he's searching for any glimpse of reservation in my decision to leave.
“Please, Finley,” he says, with shaky breath. “You love us, you can’t do this to us.”
I knew he’d use us against me. I knew he’d say this, and I'm prepared for it. Us has the potential to be my kryptonite. But I can’t let it get to me.
When Brody and I first started dating, we were incredible together—like two peas in a pod. We were goofy, stupid, funny, and playful. We were all the things that made a person laugh a lot in life. We both lit up inside when we made our relationship official.
