Cleaning out her old apartment

Amanda handed me the keys after breakfast. Not the camp keys. A different set. Car keys. Truck keys. A folded slip of paper with a New York address written in her neat, slanted handwriting.

I looked from the keys to her face. “You’re serious.”

She didn’t blink. “Dead serious.”

I glanced at the address again.

“New York City?”

“Yes.”

“With a truck?”

“Yes.”

“You want me to drive a truck into the biggest city in the world to empty out your apartment?”

Amanda’s mouth tightened just enough to tell me she already knew how ridiculous it sounded. “It’s not the biggest city in the world and it’s my apartment anymore.”

That was the first thing she’d said that morning that made her sound tired instead of sharp. I looked at her for another second, waiting for the joke. It never came.

“There’s furniture, boxes, and whatever else is left,” she said. “Bring back anything that belongs to me. Leave the rest.”

“And why am I doing this?”

“Because I asked.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the only one you’re getting.”

I should have pushed harder. I should have asked why she wasn’t going herself. I should have asked why this had to be me. Instead I took the keys.

Amanda watched me tuck the address into my pocket. “Don’t make me regret trusting you.”

I gave her a salute that was probably too casual for the situation. “I never do.”

She gave me a look that said she absolutely did not believe that. Then she turned and walked away before I could ask anything else.

By eight I was on the road. The truck rattled like it had been assembled from spare parts and bad decisions.

The farther south I drove, the more the trees gave way to highways, exits, toll booths, and traffic that seemed personally offended by my existence. By the time the skyline finally rose ahead of me, I was sweaty, stiff, and regretting every mile.

New York looked like it had been built by somebody who hated open space. Everything was concrete, glass, steel, and noise. The apartment building sat on a side street that smelled like hot pavement and old takeout. Too many people. Too many car horns.

I parked the truck, killed the engine, and stared up at the building for a second before grabbing the keys and heading inside.

The elevator was broken. Of course it was.

I hauled myself up three flights of stairs with a clipboard, a roll of packing tape, and the growing suspicion that Amanda had assigned me this job because she enjoyed watching me suffer.

When I reached the apartment door, I knocked. A minute later it opened.

The guy on the other side was taller than me, broad in the shoulders, and wearing expensive-looking lounge pants like he’d been born annoyed. He looked me up and down. “You’re the camp kid.”

I didn’t like the way he said it. “I’m here for Amanda’s things.”

He snorted. “Yeah. That tracks.”

He stepped aside and let me in.

The apartment was half-empty already. One side of the living room looked stripped bare, like somebody had started packing in a hurry and then stopped caring.

The other side still held the leftovers of a life that had clearly been shared for too long. A couch. A coffee table. A stack of books. A framed photo turned face-down on the counter.

The guy shut the door behind me and leaned against the frame with his arms folded. “She always did like sending other people to do her dirty work. The queen of delegation.”

I ignored that and looked around. “So who are you to Amanda?”

“I was the man who was going to be her husband until a few weeks ago.”

I set the clipboard down and started opening closets. He kept talking. That was the worst part. He never stopped.

“She’s obsessed with work, you know.”

I didn’t answer.

“She always was. Always on the phone. Always in meetings. Always too busy to be a person. Three weeks out of the months she was out in some shit hole town in Ohio.”

I pulled a stack of folded sweaters from a shelf and dropped them into a box. He watched me like he expected me to agree.

“She’s not exactly warm,” he added.

Still nothing from me. He laughed under his breath. “You can tell her I said that if you want.”

I glanced over my shoulder. “Why would I do that?”

He shrugged. “Because it’s true. She’s a cold bitch.”

I went back to packing.

The apartment was full of Amanda in ways that were hard to explain. Not pictures. Not decorations. Just traces. A legal pad covered in tiny notes. A pair of running shoes by the door. A jacket hanging on the back of a chair. Coffee mugs stacked in a way that screamed efficiency. The kind of details that told you somebody lived carefully. The kind of details that made it obvious she’d been trying to hold a lot together.

The guy kept pacing behind me, talking like he was trying to convince himself more than me. “She was never home. Never wanted to go out. Never wanted to do anything unless it was on her schedule.”

I opened a dresser drawer and found underwear folded into neat little stacks. Skimpy. Lacy underwear.

I shut it again immediately.

Not because I was embarrassed. Because I didn’t want to think about it. Didn’t want to picture Amanda in any of it. Not right now with this dick berating me. Didn’t want to notice the sizes on the tags of her bras or the fact that she once wore this sexy lingerie for someone.

The guy saw the drawer open and smirked “Yeah get a look at the sexy she never wore. His jaw tightened. “I’m just saying she wasn’t exactly attentive.”

I stared at him for a beat. Then I went back to work.

He took that as permission to keep digging. “I never would’ve cheated if she’d been around more.”

That made me stop. I turned slowly.

He lifted both hands like he was the injured party. “What? I’m being honest.”

“No,” I said. “You’re making excuses.”

His expression hardened.N“She didn’t care about my needs.”

There it was. The real complaint. Not loneliness. Not resentment. Needs.

I looked at him for a long second and decided right then that whatever had happened between them, this guy was not the victim in the story. He was selfish. Petty. The kind of man who would set a house on fire and then complain the smoke got in his eyes.

Amanda might have been difficult. She might have been guarded. She might have worked too much. But I didn’t believe for a second that she was the problem he was trying to make her out to be. If anything, he sounded like the sort of guy who expected to be worshipped for doing the bare minimum.

I packed faster after that.

Boxes filled up with books, kitchenware, framed prints, office supplies, winter coats, and enough folded clothes to make it obvious Amanda had been living there like someone who never fully unpacked because she never fully trusted the place to stay hers.

The ex-fiancé hovered in the doorway the whole time, talking trash whenever he got bored.

“She’s impossible.”

“She’s cold.”

“She thinks work is a personality.”

“She’s a pillow princess.”

I paused with a box of files in my hands and looked at him again.

He smiled like he thought he’d won something.

I didn’t give him the satisfaction.

Instead I carried the box to the truck.

By late afternoon the back of it was packed tight. Furniture strapped down. Boxes stacked to the ceiling. Trash bagged and tied. The apartment looked emptier every time I came back inside.

The guy watched me haul the last load out and leaned against the counter with a smug little smile.

“Tell her I said something.”

I turned.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a white envelope. “For Amanda.”

I took it without thinking. “What is it?”

He shrugged. “Something she should’ve heard a long time ago.”

That was warning enough. I opened the envelope right there in the hallway.

Inside was a single folded note.

I unfolded it. Read it once. Then again.

“Fuck you. Dead fish fuck better.”

For a second I just stared at the words.

Then something hot and ugly moved through my chest.

I looked up at him. He was still smirking. Still pleased with himself. Still acting like this was clever. I tore the note in half. Then in half again. Then again until it was nothing but scraps in my fist.

“No way,” I said.

He frowned.

“What?”

“I’m not giving that to her.”

I dropped the pieces into the trash bag by the door.

He opened his mouth like he wanted to argue.

I cut him off before he could.

“You’re a miserable asshole.”

His face changed.

Not much. Just enough.

I picked up the last box, walked past him, and headed for the truck.

Behind me, he said something I didn’t bother to hear.

I didn’t care.

By the time I slammed the back gate shut and climbed into the cab, the note was already gone.

And whatever he thought he’d accomplished with it, Amanda was never going to see a single word of it from me.