Marcus winced.
“That sounds terrible.”
“It sounds accurate.”
“I didn’t mean it the way you’re interpreting it.”
He moved closer.
“I meant that you were my real life.”
He apparently believed that explanation made things better.
It didn’t.
I walked upstairs and took a suitcase from the closet.
Marcus followed.
“What are you doing?”
“Packing your things.”
“Danielle.”
“You’re not permanently losing access to the house. Legally, it belongs to both of us.”
I opened the suitcase.
“But tonight, you’re sleeping somewhere else.”
He followed me into the bedroom and sat on the edge of the bed.
Then he told me he loved me.
For a moment, I stopped.
Not because I believed him.
Because only twenty-four hours earlier those exact words would have meant something completely different.
It was strange how much emotional distance could appear in a single day.
“You love the life I made comfortable for you,” I said.
