104

Kassie

Bullshit Box

His stuff needed to go somewhere .

Taking a moment to steady my breath, I headed off to the clothing donation bin in the lobby of Roman Forest. It was a nasty, off-neon green color, so happy and joyful like it had anything to laugh about. The little cartoon kid dressed in six parkas had a thumbs-up sign, but somebody had drawn devil horns and ‘ Bullshit Box ' over him.

That's where his stuff belonged - in the Bullshit Box.

I opened it and closed it just as quickly. But the trick was, I couldn't allow myself to pause. This wasn't the training center. I needed to get of all of it before I left for Florida.

Swearing under my breath, I yanked on the handle and there went one of the cheap volunteer shirts we'd worn together for a food drive. Trash. The pair of sandals he'd bought me when my heels killed my ankles on a trip to Discovery Park. Garbage. Two pairs of Marrs University dark blue sunglasses we'd picked up at the bookstore. Gone, all of it, gone.

The anger was the easy part.

It was so simple, pull the handle, drop the clothes in, push it into where I couldn't reach it anymore, where I wouldn't have to look at it again. I released the handle, one after another after another. Metal crashed against metal, the sweet sound of finality.

"Good," I snapped and took a deep breath. The deep breath wouldn't come. I tried again. " Good ."

Shirts, pants, jackets, scarves, shorts, Marrs socks, all the Marrs socks. I kept down the handle with my elbow and threw everything in. If I went as fast as I could, I could outpace that burning sensation that started somewhere at the bottom of my throat. I just had to keep going.

The burning sensation latched on, and I struggled to breathe, throwing things into the metal hatch.

There were only a handful of items left. I was almost done.

"Good." I tried to say with a clear voice, but my throat ached. "Fantastic."

Small items slipped between my fingers, and I watched everything from the last couple of months tumble away. The whole thing Cleo had orchestrated, I still remembered our first meeting in the training center. It was supposed to be so simple. It wasn't supposed to rip my heart out and smash it to pieces.

"Serves you right," I snapped. "Serves you—serves you—" I squeezed my eyes shut and pressed my lips together, trying to keep the swell of tears away.

Only one thing remained, and the metal creaked as I held it above the jaws of death.

I let the Bullshit Box slam shut. Why didn't I throw it away first?

The number ‘four' practically shined back at me, and there it was, Cross, all in capitals. H is jersey, the one I'd taken from his locker.

His damn jersey.

That's what was left. An overpriced, marked-up piece of cloth that I'd worn to every game, every practice. It should've been the first thing I tossed.

But for some damn reason, I couldn't unclench my fingers.

Once I threw it away, that was it.

"Okay." I swallowed and balled up the jersey tight. "I can do this. I—I can do this."

Nothing happened.

"I can do this." With a shallow breath, I dug my fingernails into the fabric and slammed open the metal door and held the jersey overhead. "I can do this. Just do it. Just do it ."

The empty silver gleam winked back at me and I hesitated.

Tears stung.

I can't do it .

It was a harsh realization.

There wasn't a long-term plan. I wouldn't drop it in a ravine or something. But staring down at the metal in horror, I swallowed twice. Everything else could go, but the jersey still smelled like him . I couldn't abandon it yet.

I just couldn't cast it aside. Not yet.

" Ma'am —"

I whipped over, the sound bringing me from my trance, definitely looking like the residential basement dweller. Tears streamed down my face and I was bent across the Bullshit Box, like I could've prevented anybody from seeing what I was up to.

"Ma'am, do you need me to call somebody?" The receptionist frowned, peering into the hallway. "Because I'm trying to read a book and you've been crying for twenty minutes…."

"No, I'm—I'm fine—" It took me a moment to look at my hand, completely empty. "Oh no."

"Okay, because if you want a tissue…or…a key back to your room , I can—"

My mouth fell open. "I dropped it in."

"Dropped—?"

"I dropped it." With stumbling steps back, I checked and double-checked the clean floors. "I dropped it in, I dropped it in. No—no. Shit , there's no—no way. It's gone. It's gone . No, no, no —"

The receptionist grimaced.

Sucking in deep breaths, I yanked open the metal drawer. "How do you open the Bullshit Box?!"

"You don't open it. It's for clothing donations, it's not a Walmart."

"I dropped it. I didn't mean to. Please. I need it, I just need it back—"

With a slow shake of his head, the receptionist made a clear look of longing back to his desk. "We don't have a way to open it."

"Somebody's got to have a key—"

"I'm just a work-study temp."

"Somebody's got to have a key . You don't get it, you don't understand, I need—" I shook my head. It wasn't like I would've never thrown it in. Of course I would've, I just…wasn't ready. My lip wobbled, my voice cracked. "I need it. I need it back."

"I'll text my boss but we really can't open it."

The receptionist returned to his desk and slowly, I took my place next to the Bullshit Box. It all worked out. I got rid of everything. That's what I'd wanted.

I leaned against the wall and slumped to the floor.

I pulled my knees up and stared at the floor. If I was really quiet, nobody would stumble on this completely normal scene, and I could cry as much as I didn't want to.