Steven’s lazy voice came through, “The funeral’s over, right? Wanna come by the recovery center to see the baby?”
I glanced at myself in the rearview mirror—dark circles, red eyes. “Steven, we broke up.”
There was a pause on the other end. Then he just said, “Yeah. That’s probably for the best. Nel’s been kinda depressed since the birth. Seeing you might upset her.”
And just like that, two weeks’ worth of tears finally spilled over. I laughed through the ache in my throat. “Did you not hear me? I said we’re done.”
Another pause—then a low, mocking chuckle. “Lucia, you were with me for five years. I used you up. You think anyone else would still want you?”
“I told you, the baby was a mistake. Why can’t you just let it go?”
I didn’t respond.
Then I heard something crash on his end of the call.
Steven gave a sharp laugh. “Fine. Go. Leave. I’ll be here when you come crawling back.”
He hung up.
When I got home, I found the door code had been changed.
I tried calling him—straight to voicemail. With nowhere else to go, I checked into a cheap hotel for the night.
The next morning, my feed lit up with a livestream suggestion.