She kept talking.
“He lives on Tyler’s couch. The Civic isn't even fully his. His cousin owns half of it or something. He expected me to pay for dinner the first night.”
I almost couldn't believe she was telling me this as though it helped her case.
“He kept asking when my settlement from you was coming.”
“Of course he did.”
“He said once we had fifty thousand, we could launch a brand together.”
“A vibe brand?”
She glared at me through tears.
“Please don't.”
“Sorry.”
“He left when I told him there wasn't going to be money.”
She looked at me.
“And I realized what I lost.”
I folded my hands.
“What did you lose?”
“You.”
I said nothing.
“Our home.”
I said nothing.
“Our life.”
“Which part?”
“What?”
“Which part do you miss?”
“All of it.”
“The Range Rover?”
She flinched.
“No.”
“The loft?”
“No.”
“The card?”
“Brad, stop.”
“The dinners?”
“I miss you.”
“Then tell me something you miss about me that doesn't involve what I bought.”
She opened her mouth.
Nothing came out.
I waited.
Seconds passed.
Her face changed.
Because she understood.
Finally she whispered, “You used to make coffee before I woke up.”
True.
“You remembered how I liked it.”
Also true.
“You fixed things.”
There it was again.
“I fixed problems.”
“You took care of me.”
“Yes.”
“And I didn't appreciate it.”
“No.”
She stood.
Then walked around my desk.
I immediately moved back.
“Please.”
She reached for my hand.
I didn't take hers.
“Brad, I love you.”
The words should have done something.
Three years earlier, they would have changed my entire day.
Now they sounded like a key being tried in a lock that had already been replaced.
“No.”
She froze.
“No?”
“You don't love me in the way I need to be loved.”
“That isn't fair.”
“Maybe.”
“You can't decide what I feel.”
“True.”
I nodded.
“But I can decide what I accept.”
She cried harder.
“Please let me come home.”
That sentence clarified everything.
“Home where?”
She stared.
“The loft?”
She looked away.
“You said you hate your mother’s house.”
“She has six cats.”
“Four.”
“Whatever.”
“Margo.”
I stood.
“You didn't come here because you rediscovered our relationship.”
“Yes, I did.”
“No.”
I kept my voice soft.
“You left because you believed you had a better branch to grab.”
Her eyes narrowed.
“You thought Julian was exciting, connected, upward.”
I continued.
“You assumed I would remain underneath you financially even after you swung away.”
“That's not—”
“When the new branch snapped, you came looking for the old one.”
She shook her head.
“No.”
“You miss safety.”
“I miss you.”
“You miss the version of me who removed consequences from your decisions.”
Her face went pale.
I had finally said the thing I had spent years avoiding.
“You stopped being my partner a long time before Tuesday.”
She whispered, “That's cruel.”
“No.”
I shook my head.
“Cruel would be pretending we can go back.”
She stood there.
I almost felt sorry for her.
Actually, I did feel sorry for her.
That surprised me too.
Compassion and reconciliation are not the same thing.
You can understand someone is hurting without volunteering to become the medicine.
“Margo, I hope you rebuild.”
She stared at me.
“I mean that.”
“You expect me to start over with nothing?”
“No.”
“You have your clothes, your personal belongings, your skills, your contacts.”
“I don't have a car.”
“You’re twenty-six.”
“I don't have an apartment.”
“Neither did I when I was twenty-six.”
Her face hardened.
“You love this.”
“What?”
“Watching me suffer.”
I thought carefully before answering.
“No.”
That was the truth.
“I would have loved this four days ago.”
She looked confused.
“The angry version of me wanted you humiliated.”
I paused.
“But sitting here now? I just want it finished.”
Her shoulders dropped.
That hurt her more than anger would have.
She stepped away from the desk.
“So that's it?”
“Yes.”
“Three years.”
“Yes.”
“And I mean nothing?”
“I didn't say that.”
“Then what did I mean?”
I looked at her.
“You were someone I loved.”
Past tense.
She heard it.
Her face collapsed.
I pressed the intercom.
“Security, please come to my office.”
Margo stared at me.
“You’re having security remove me?”
“I’m asking them to escort you downstairs.”
“You're unbelievable.”
“Maybe.”
“You owe me.”
Those words erased the last trace of doubt.
“I gave you the best years of my life.”
“You were twenty-three when we met.”
“So?”
“I supported your career.”
“You controlled me with money.”
“I encouraged you to work.”
“You liked taking care of me.”
“Yes.”
“That made me dependent.”
“No.”
I shook my head.
“My mistake was making dependency comfortable.”
Two guards appeared at the door.
Margo looked at them.
Then at me.
Her expression shifted from pain to anger.
“You'll regret this.”
“Maybe.”
“You'll never find someone like me.”
I believed that.
For once, I hoped she was right.
The guards escorted her out.
I closed my office door.
Then I sat down.
My hands began shaking.