Part 3I Broke Up With Him His Life Broke Down

Perhaps it was the prick of a guilty conscience, but he was up ridiculously early, making breakfast.

He held up a bacon and cheese croissant. “Your favorite. See?”

This was his usual pathetic routine: a cheap, flimsy gesture of placation meant to paper over a massive betrayal.

Before, I would have melted. Today, I was granite.

“I’m not hungry,” I said, coolly. “I’m heading to work.”

I was halfway to the garage when he rushed after me, breathless. “Let’s ride together?”

I stopped, one eyebrow arched in genuine surprise. “Weren’t you worried about discretion?”

He was a shareholder; I was a project manager at Crestwood Global. For years, he’d strictly forbidden me from publicizing our relationship, maintaining a glacial distance in the office, acting like we were barely acquainted.

He flushed, realizing his contradiction. “The garage is usually empty this early. No one will see.”

I didn’t argue. I pulled open the passenger door.

The seat was covered in a ridiculous mound of plush toys, and tucked into the seat back was a little customized plaque that read: "Sloanie's Spot!"

Rhys stammered, scrambling to throw the toys into the back seat. “Sloane, you know. She just hitches a ride sometimes. She’s being ridiculous.”

A sour, metallic taste flooded my mouth.

I used to have to meticulously check his car for stray hairs or crumbs before I rode with him. Once, I’d accidentally left my ID on the floor, and he’d lost his mind, throwing it at me and warning he’d toss it in the garbage if I ever left a trace again.

Now, he tolerated a whole zoo of a grown woman's tacky toys.

Watching him struggle to clear the mess, I felt only annoyance. “Don’t bother. I’ll take my own car.”

I turned, but he grabbed my arm. “Let me drive. We haven’t spent time together.”

I glanced at the panic in his eyes, but I was running late. I didn’t have the energy to fight him. I got in.