behind her and pulled a stack of stickers out of her back pocket. “. . . is put blue stickers on the things to be donated, orange on the stuff that goes to the dump. I’ve already called the guy, and he’ll be here tomorrow to haul it all away to the appropriate place.”
“How much will that cost?” Claire asked skeptically, knowing that hauling away a room full of crap in crowded Manhattan was no small feat.
“My treat. I’d pay a zillion dollars to get Brayden out of your life completely,” Audrey said. “All you have to do is decide what of the bastard’s stuff goes to Goodwill and what is trash.”
Claire took a deep breath and a fortifying sip of her cocktail before setting it on a shelf near the door. “Okay. I can do that. You guys take some stickers, too. Use your best judgment.”
“All right, but how do we know what stuff you want to keep?” Naomi asked cautiously.
It was an innocent question, but it rocked Claire to the core, as she realized that right there was the reason she’d been putting this task off for so long. This room, this stuff, was the last of Brayden. All that she had. Letting go of his stuff meant letting go of him, once and for all.
And she hadn’t been ready, she’d realized. She’d been mad. She’d been determined. But anger and determination alone were not a reason to move on.
She’d needed a reason.
She’d found that reason but was pretty sure that reason wasn’t ready to move on with her. Or just was not interested.
Claire looked around, suddenly so sick of men. “All of it goes,” she said firmly.
“All of it?”
“Everything in this room,” Claire said, knowing there was one thing she’d keep that was hidden safely in her underwear drawer. “Do you think they’ll take the ugly bed?”
“There’s a bed in here?”
Claire pointed to a mound in the center of the room. “Under the clothes. The mattress is awful, older than I am. I want to get rid of it and put the master bed in here so I can get a new bed in my room.”
“A bed you didn’t share with him,” Naomi said astutely.
“Bingo.”
“They’ll take it away,” Audrey said, gingerly wading into the room. “And can I just point out that Brayden apparently had more clothes than me? And that is really saying something.”
“His stuff took up about eighty percent of the closet,” Claire agreed, annoyed that even the mention of male clothes made her think of Scott.
She’d snooped in his closet, finding the expected small assortment of T-shirts and flannel, but also a handful of suits, dress shirts, and slacks. Not to mention the tux. And that was just in one of his houses. It made her realize there were facets of Scott she hadn’t met. Probably never would.
The three of them got to work, chatting as they went, thankfully not about men.
“What do you guys think, donate or dump?” Claire held up Brayden’s briefcase.
“Donate,” they both said.
“It’s Hermès,” Naomi said. “Someone needs to get in on that action. I’d take it to Oliver if it weren’t the creepiest thing in the world to give my dead lover’s briefcase to the man I’m living with.”
Claire flipped it around to look at it more closely. She’d thought she knew her way around luxury goods, but it looked like a boring black men’s briefcase to her. “How the heck can you name the designer in four seconds?” she asked, setting the bag down and placing a blue sticker on its side.
“Practice. You don’t become an accessory billionaire without knowing your designers,” Naomi said, standing and stretching as she perused the room. “Is it just me or is this very unsatisfying?”
“Very,” Claire enthused, glad she wasn’t the only one. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’m glad it’s getting done, but I was thinking it was going to be a little more therapeutic. You know, like a big moment.”
“Yeah, the stickers are convenient, but they do lack a certain panache, especially for some of the more personal items,” Audrey agreed. “I don’t have anything like this at my place, but I confess I’ve got a tie and shirt of Brayden’s that I’ve just been holding on to. I always mean to put them in the trash, but it feels so insignificant. I keep envisioning burning them.”
“Yes!” Naomi agreed, pointing her cocktail at Audrey. “A burn pile. Now that is a gesture and a fitting fuck you, buddy.”
“You mean