"I didn't fire you!" she protested. "I was just—"
"You auditioned me," I corrected. "You sat there, ate the food I was paying for, and told me I had to compete for your loyalty. You told me I was boring and safe and that you wanted excitement. Well, look at you." I gestured vaguely at her disheveled state. "You got excitement. You got drama. You got the roller coaster you wanted. You're standing on a doorstep at 7:00 a.m. crying because a toxic guy treated you like trash. That is the most exciting thing that has happened to you in years. Congratulations."
Her face crumbled. The sorrow vanished, replaced by a flash of that familiar narcissistic rage.
"You're being cruel!" she spat. "This isn't you! You're supposed to be the nice guy! You're supposed to support me!"
"I was the nice guy," I agreed. "And you told me that wasn't enough. You told me nice was boring. So, I'm trying something new."
"Mark, I have nowhere to go!" she screamed. "My parents are in Florida! My friends are all sick of hearing about this! I have no money! Do you want me to sleep on the street?"
"That sounds like a logistical problem," I said. "And since I'm no longer your partner, it's not my problem to solve."
"After three years?" she whispered, playing her final card: the guilt card. "Three years meant nothing to you?"
"They meant everything to me," I said. And for the first time, I let a little bit of the pain show, just enough so she knew it was real. "I was building a life for us. I was saving for a ring. I was planning a future. But you weren't building with me, Vanessa. You were just waiting in the lobby until something better came along. You didn't leave because of three years. You left because you thought you found an upgrade. You came back because the upgrade failed."
I took a sip of my coffee.
"I'm not the backup plan. I'm not the safety school you settle for when you don't get into Harvard. I'm the prize, and you lost me."
She stared at me. She finally saw it. There was no anger in my eyes anymore; there was no jealousy. There was just indifference. I looked at her the way you look at a stranger who knocked on the wrong door.
"Here," I said. I reached into my pocket and pulled out a $20 bill. "This is for a cab to Emily's place. I'm sure she'll take you in if you tell her the truth this time."
I held it out. She stared at the money with disgust, then snatched it from my hand.
"I hate you," she hissed. "You think you're so perfect? You're going to die alone."