Chapter 17
The leasing office smelled like fresh paint and cheap coffee. I sat at a laminate desk that wobbled every time Tyler shifted his weight, and the manager slid two copies of the lease toward us with a blue pen that had a chewed cap.
It was a one-bedroom on the second floor of a brick four-plex three miles from Diane's house, over a laundromat. The rent was more than I wanted to pay and less than I was afraid it would be. Twelve months, first and last up front, no pets, laundry downstairs. Tyler read every line with his lips moving slightly, like he had when the fridge was still chained.
"You got proof of income?" the manager asked, looking at me.
I handed her my pay stubs, the grocery money trail printed out now folded into a lease application. She didn't blink at it. She stamped something, turned the pages.
"This is my notice becoming an address," I thought, but didn't say.
We both signed. Tyler's signature was quick, messy. Mine took longer. The manager handed us two silver keys on a plain ring, no fob, no tag. They were warm from her hand. Tyler closed his fist around his and didn't open it until we were back in the car.
We drove to the apartment with the windows down. The kitchen there was tiny, white cabinets that didn't match Diane's, a refrigerator that was empty and already running, its door open with the light on. No chain. No padlock. Just a dent on the lower handle where someone had yanked it too hard. I stood in front of it for a minute and just breathed in the cold air.
That afternoon we started packing in the spare room at Diane's. I made an inventory on a legal pad because I didn't want any argument later about what was ours.
"Your clothes, your toiletries, pots we bought after the wedding, coffee maker, the books you brought from your old apartment," I said out loud as I wrote. Tyler taped boxes. He held up a stack of yogurt cups from Diane's fridge shelf.
"These?" he asked.
I shook my head. "No shared groceries taken. We came with our groceries, we leave with ours. Her milk, her eggs, her condiments stay."
We left her groceries exactly where they were, even the things I'd bought the week before the chain went on and never got to eat. It felt petty and important at the same time. I wiped down our shelf in the refrigerator as we emptied it — the shelf she'd assigned us after she unlocked it — and left it clean and bare. Tyler watched me do it without saying anything, then carried the boxes to the hallway so the floor wouldn't get scuffed.
Diane came home at five thirty while we were in the kitchen. She set her purse on the island, the marble catching the light the same way it had in the video, and looked at the boxes stacked by the back door. She didn't comment on them at first. She walked to the refrigerator, opened both French doors wide, and stared inside.
The rust marks from the chain were still there on the handles, faint orange crescents in the stainless where it had rubbed. But the doors swung free. Unlocked. Empty shelves on our side.
"You left it unlocked," she said. It wasn't a question.
"You agreed it stays unlocked until we leave," I said. "And permanent after."
She ran her thumb over one of the rust marks, then wiped her hand on her pants. She looked at me, then at Tyler, who had stopped taping and was holding the tape gun at his side.
"I had a friend ask why there were marks on the handles," she said quietly. "Told her it was a delivery strap." She shook her head. "No one believed it."
She closed the refrigerator doors, gently, with both hands, not slamming. The seal made its soft thump.
"It stays permanent," she said. "No more chain. No more padlock. I put it in the garage. If you want it for a police report or something, it's there. I'm not putting it back on."
Tyler exhaled. I hadn't realized he was holding his breath.
"Thank you for saying that out loud," I said. "We needed to hear it."
Diane nodded once, tight. She didn't hug anyone. She walked to the pantry and checked it, like she was making sure we hadn't taken anything, then seemed to realize what she was doing and stopped. She looked at the inventory list I'd left on the counter.
"You didn't take the groceries," she said.
"No," I said.
"Right to do," she said. Her voice was flatter now, tired. "Clean break. Your apartment ready?"
"Signed today," Tyler said. He held out the key ring without thinking. "Second floor. Small kitchen."
Diane looked at the keys but didn't take them. "Good," she said. "Then you'll be out by Sunday like we said. And I'll change the garage code. Not to lock you out while you're here. Just after. Boundary."
"That's lawful," I said. "That's what we agreed."
She stood there a second longer in that bright kitchen, between the island and the refrigerator that was finally just a refrigerator, and I saw that she was going to say something else — maybe an apology, maybe another rule — but she stopped herself. She just nodded again and went to her room, closing that paneled door halfway.
May you like
Tyler and I stood in the kitchen with our empty shelves and our keys. I picked up the legal pad where I'd written INVENTORY SEPARATION - OURS ONLY at the top and checked the last box. Outside, someone started mowing a lawn. I felt the apartment keys cold against my palm.
We had a place. We were leaving clean.
