Page 131 of Dial L for Lawyer
"I can't believe you own this many shoes," Caleb says from my bedroom closet, his voice muffled. "This is like a Nordstrom stockroom."
"Those are investment pieces," I call back, wrapping another coffee mug in newspaper. The newsprint leaves my fingers gray.
"These are from Target." He emerges holding a pair of flats with the tag still on. "The tag says $12.99."
"Vintage Target. Very different."
He laughs, that rich sound that still makes my stomach flutter even after everything we've been through. It's been two weeks since the board meeting, since Maya's betrayal came to light, since everything fell apart and came back together. Twoweeks of playing house at his penthouse while ignoring the fact that I eventually needed to come back here and deal with my life.
But last night, when he said, "Just move in already," I didn't argue.
I pause as I wrap a framed photo of my parents, thinking of Richard Sterling's face when I told him I wouldn't be coming back to Luminous. He'd been so sure I'd accept the VP position—had even cleared an office and ordered business cards. When I said no, his expression cycled through confusion, disbelief, and something that looked almost like respect.
"You're making a mistake," he'd said, but without heat. "We need you."
"No," I'd replied, surprising myself with how steady my voice was. "You need someone. It doesn't have to be me."
It had been terrifying and exhilarating, walking away from what I'd spent years building. But with each box I pack, each roll of tape I use up, I feel lighter. The weight of expectation—of having to be perfect Serena Morgan, marketing genius—has lifted. I'm unemployed, directionless and weirdly happy about it.
"What about this?" Caleb holds up a framed motivational poster that says 'HUSTLE' in aggressive typography. "Please tell me this was ironic."
"It was a secret santa gift from Maya," I admit, and we both freeze at the mention of her name.
"Trash pile?" he asks carefully.
"Definitely trash pile."
He tosses it onto the growing heap of things I'm letting go. It lands with a satisfying crack of glass.
"Sorry," he says, not looking sorry at all.
"Don't be. It's cathartic." I seal another box and label it ‘Kitchen - Mugs I Actually Use.’ Next to it sits ‘Kitchen - Mugs I Never Use But Can't Part With For Some Reason.’
"You know I have mugs, right?" Caleb says, eyeing the boxes.
"I'm not parting with my mug collection," I tell him, taping up the box with more force than necessary. The tape gun makes a satisfying chunk sound. "Some of those are from college."
"You graduated eight years ago."
"And?"
"And that 'Keep Calm and Market On' monstrosity has a chip in it."
I point my packing tape gun at him. "First of all, it's a battle scar. Second, you don't get to judge my mug choices when you drink coffee out of what looks like a pencil holder."
"It's a designer mug," he protests, his mock offense making me smile despite myself.
"It's ridiculous. It looks like they forgot to finish it, and it doesn’t even have a handle. You’re the only man alive who could spend $300 to make drinking coffee feel like a punishment." I move to the bookshelf, running my fingers along the spines, leaving trails in the dust. "What about these? You already have most of them."
"Bring them anyway. We'll figure it out."
That's been his answer for everything these past weeks. We'll figure it out. Like the future is some puzzle we're putting together, with all the pieces already in the box.
I run my hand along the spines one more time, then turn to look at him. He's standing in the middle of my living room, sleeves rolled up, a smudge of dust on his cheek. His hair is sticking up where he's run his hands through it in frustration at my organizational system—or lack thereof. It's the least polished I've ever seen him, and it makes my heart do something complicated in my chest.
"What?" he asks, catching me staring.
"Nothing. Just... this is really happening."
