Chapter 7 - The Walk of Shame
The next hour was a masterclass in humiliation, entirely self-inflicted.
Scott and Bernice scurried through the house, throwing clothes into suitcases. The security guards stood by the doors, ensuring they only took personal items like clothing and toiletries.
I stood in the kitchen, watching the clock.
Suddenly, a loud crash echoed from the dining room. I walked in to find Bernice trying to wrap a set of Royal Copenhagen dinnerware in a bath towel.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
Bernice looked up, defensive and desperate. “These are mine! I bought these for my dinner parties!”
“You swiped a card with my name on it,” I corrected her. “Put them down.”
“Please! Just let me have the plates!” she begged, clutching a gravy boat to her chest like a newborn baby. It was pathetic. This woman, who had mocked my father’s handmade biscuits, was now crying over porcelain plates because it was the last scrap of her fake aristocratic life.
“Put. Them. Down.” I said, my voice dropping an octave.
She flinched, slowly placing the plates back on the table.
Outside, the roar of a heavy diesel engine signaled the arrival of the repo truck.
Scott rushed to the window, his eyes widening in horror as a man in a high-vis vest hooked thick steel chains to the axles of his beloved customized Porsche.
“Hey! Stop! You can’t take that!” Scott yelled, running out the front door.
The repo man handed him a clipboard. “Voluntary surrender authorized by the primary account holder, buddy. Step back or I’ll call the cops.”
Scott stood in the rain, watching the symbol of his success get hoisted into the air and towed away down the pristine suburban street. The neighbors were now openly watching from their porches, some recording with their phones.
By 11:55 AM, they were done.
Two suitcases each. That was all they were leaving with. The expensive art, the high-end electronics, the designer furniture—all of it belonged to the house, and by extension, to me.
Since they had no car, Scott had been forced to call a rideshare.
A battered, yellow taxi pulled up to the driveway, a stark contrast to the luxury vehicles that usually lined the street.
Scott dragged his bags to the trunk. He stopped and looked back at me standing on the porch. His eyes were red, filled with a mixture of hatred and profound regret. He knew he had thrown away a golden ticket because he couldn't control his own ego.
“You’ll regret this, Caroline,” he tried to say, aiming for intimidating but landing on pathetic. “You’ll be lonely.”
“I’ve been lonely for three years, Scott,” I replied. “Today is the first day I’m actually free.”
Bernice didn't even look at me. She kept her head down, using her purse to shield her face from the neighbors' prying eyes as she slid into the back of the taxi.
The cab drove away, disappearing around the corner.
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I took a deep breath, the crisp, rain-washed air filling my lungs. I walked back inside my quiet, massive house, picked up the broom, and began to sweep up the shattered glass of the fake tequila bottle.
The cleanup had begun.
