He’s rearranged the furniture in the bedroom, too. His clothes fill the closet, no sign of the garment bags and shoe boxes I’d stored in there. Was that what he’d taken out to the curb in the trash bags? I’m enraged. I can’t even remember what was in this closet before he emptied it, but that doesn’t matter. Whatever it was, it was mine.

Just like he’s supposed to be mine. Not Beth’s. My fists clench, so I force myself to uncurl my fingers. I take a deep breath. It’s none of my business who Christian sleeps with, and it’s not my business if Beth cheats on her husband. I can hate it all I want, but I have no right to worry about it. If anything, I should thank her. If he wants a sugar mama, let her be the one, make him leave me alone.

An open suitcase on the bed tempts me to snoop. A few more items of clothing. Some toiletries. Nothing interesting or revealing, but what had I been expecting? A big sign that said “Hi, I’m Christian’s Real Motivation for Fucking with Your Life?”

Working quickly, I start with the boxes in the living room. None of them are labeled, and many of them date back to before my parents had moved to Florida. Some are even older than that. I should carry them right out to the curb for trash pickup, but instead, one by one, rushing in case he comes back, I carry them over to my house. I don’t have time to drive them all to my storage unit.

When Christian returns and sees the boxes have been cleared out, he will know I’ve been in the carriage house, but I don’t care. He’ll know I avoided him on purpose. Maybe he’ll get the hint and back off.

My attic is narrow and low-ceilinged, accessed by a pull-down ladder. I have a few boxes stored up there. Some of Eli’s baby clothes and toys. Bins full of old tax folders. That sort of thing. I need to move it all to one side to make room for what I’m putting up there now.

The box containing my old high school stuff is shoved toward the rafters, just out of reach of my grasping fingers as I stand on the ladder. I strain and manage to snag it enough to drag it closer. Moisture beads at my hairline and trickles down my spine. It stinks up here, dust and mouse turds and ancient insulation that’s probably going to give me lung cancer.

Inside the box, photos and old notes and a couple of hardbound yearbooks mingle with other mementos from my youth. I flip open the yearbook from my senior year and a laugh bursts out of me at the sight of my black eyeliner, dyed black hair, black lips, black nails. I wore fishnet arm stockings. I touch the small face in the photo. No smile. Despite the getup, I don’t remember being sad, not about life in general, anyway. Only and ever about him.