Chapter 2

The next blow came two days later.

I was at Andrew's place, trying to piece together what had happened. My phone rang. It was the building manager from the South Congress apartment Jocelyn and I shared. An apartment leased in her name.

"Mr. Lester? You need to come get your things. Ms. Chadwick's representative is here clearing the unit."

I drove over, a sick feeling growing in my gut.

When I arrived, the door to our apartment was wide open. Two movers were carrying my recording equipment out to the curb. My vintage guitars, my mixing board, my amps. My life's work.

Caleb Hughes was directing them, a smug look on his face. He was wearing one of my band's t-shirts, the fabric stretched tight across his chest. A deliberate mockery.

"Hey, Ethan," he said, his tone casual. "Jocelyn's moving me in. Just getting rid of some of this... junk."

He kicked one of my studio monitors with the toe of his expensive boot.

Jocelyn appeared in the doorway, her arms crossed. She looked right through me. "Caleb is right. It's junk. Just like our time together."

"Jocelyn, please," I begged, my voice cracking. "Don't do this."

"Do what?" she asked, feigning innocence. "I'm just redecorating. This apartment is mine. Your things are not welcome here. You are not welcome here."

"Get out, Ethan," she said, her voice devoid of any emotion. "And don't ever come back."

The movers dumped the last of my boxes on the sidewalk next to a pile of my clothes. My personal belongings, memories of a life I thought was real, were now just trash on the street.

Caleb put his arm around Jocelyn and kissed her, right there in the doorway of what used to be my home. "Don't worry, baby," he said, loud enough for me to hear. "I'll buy you all new things. Better things."

I stood there on the sidewalk, surrounded by the wreckage of my life, as they closed the door.

The band t-shirt he was wearing felt like a final, deliberate insult. He wasn't just taking my fiancée and my home. He was trying to erase my identity, wearing it like a costume.

I looked at the pile of my belongings. He called it junk. She agreed.

I thought about the years I'd spent with her, the songs I'd written for her, the future I thought we were building. Was that all junk, too?

A cold anger started to replace the pain. I wouldn't let them break me.

I clenched my fists, my knuckles turning white.

"You think this is junk?" I said to the closed door, my voice low and steady. "The real trash is in that apartment."

I started picking up my things, piece by piece, my mind already calculating my next move.