The Lucky Ones. Tiffany Reisz

lowered his head and exhaled loudly.

      “You don’t make it easy on a man,” he said. “You could say thank you. Most girlfriends don’t get severance pay after a breakup.”

      “I’m not your girlfriend, remember?” She put the money into the box. She saw her earrings. She saw the rent receipt. She saw the letter. She saw two thick envelopes.

      “What are those?”

      “One’s your mail. The other’s...they’re the pictures.”

      “Our pictures?” she asked.

      He slowly nodded. “You have any idea how much it hurt giving those pictures up?”

      “How much?”

      “A lot. I came this close to keeping them.” He held up his fingers a hairbreadth apart.

      “They’re pornographic,” she said, glaring at him.

      “They’re beautiful. And you’re beautiful in them. And I don’t look too bad myself.”

      “What about running for governor someday?” she asked.

      “That’s the only reason I gave them back to you,” he said.

      “You seem sadder about losing them than losing me.”

      “Cricket, please...”

      “Don’t call me that anymore,” she said, closing her eyes. “I did everything you asked me to do—in bed and out. Everything. I never asked for anything from you. I never complained. I never...” She never made a scene. She never cried in front of him. She did all his favorite tricks.

      “We had six good years,” he said.

      “Good for you. I was nineteen. Do you feel bad about that at all?”

      “Let me ask you this,” he said. “Do you?”

      “You want me to absolve you.”

      “I want you to be honest with me,” he said. “Did I take advantage of you? If I did, then tell me. Or did you want it as much as I did?”

      “I was nineteen,” she said again.

      “You weren’t drafted into the army. You had sex with an older man who paid your rent and your bills and gave you diamonds for Christmas. You knew what the deal was when I offered it to you. I’ve told my fair share of lies to my fair share of women,” he said. “But I never lied to you about us. Did I?”

      Allison would have argued except it was true. Of course he never lied to her. Lovers lied to protect the loved one. No love to protect meant no need for lies.

      “No, you never lied to me.”

      McQueen met her eyes for a split second before glancing away, a guilty look on his face.

      “So this is it?” she asked. “The end?”

      “I’d like to have sex with you before I leave,” he said.

      Allison stared at him, incredulous.

      “Yes, and I’d like to marry a knight-errant and raise rare-breed cats with him in our castle by the sea,” she said.

      “I’m taking that as a ‘no’ to breakup sex,” he said.

      “Safe to say that’s a ‘no.’ We had sex yesterday,” she said. “Twice.”

      “That wasn’t breakup sex,” he said. “And don’t give me that look. This is your own fault.” McQueen pointed at her, shook his finger.

      “My fault? My fault?” Allison was laughing in utter amazement at the sheer gall of the man.

      “Your fault. You’ve been trying for years to make me a better man,” he said. “Give more money to the poor. Be nicer to my employees. Don’t date girls my daughter’s age. Well, maybe your guilt trips finally started to sink in a little. I don’t call you Jiminy Cricket because you wear a top hat and tails.”

      “You are unbelievable,” she said.

      “Allison,” he said, “I am sorry about this. I truly am.”

      He held out his hand to shake.

      “Six years of my life,” she said, “and it’s going to end in a handshake.”

      “You already said no to breakup sex,” he said.

      Another hard truth. So she took his hand. As soon as her hand slipped into his he pulled her gently to him and held her close.

      “You bastard,” she said even as she wrapped her arms around his shoulders.

      “Thank you for always being there for me, Allison. You are smart and lovely and kind—when you aren’t furious at me—and I’ll miss you.”

      “I hope you and your new lady and the baby are very happy together,” she said.

      “I hope so, too.”

      A knot formed in her throat. A vise clamped down onto her chest. One tear escaped her eye before she could capture it, lock it up and throw away the key.

      “You know what the stupid thing is,” Allison said, speaking to stave off the building panic. “I don’t even like you very much.”

      McQueen chuckled. She felt his chest rumble against hers. She’d miss that, too.

      “I mean it,” she said. “You’re arrogant and entitled and you do whatever you want, consequences be damned, and you’re...you’re...”

      “Rich,” he said. “That’s the word you’re looking for.”

      “That’s it,” she said.

      “If you don’t like me, why are you so upset?” he said, his tone teasing, and any other day they’d be in bed together already.

      “Because I’m going to miss not liking you.”

      He pulled her a little closer, a little tighter. He kissed her cheek, her forehead and then, at last, let her go. She hated herself for letting him be the one to let go first. Once he was gone, she would be alone, completely alone. No family. No friends. A woman on call day and night for a powerful man didn’t get to make friends. She hated him and never wanted to see him again. She loved him and never wanted him to leave her. But she didn’t cling to him when he pulled away, and she counted that a victory.

      “If it makes you feel any better,” McQueen said, his hands still on her face, “this wasn’t an easy decision.”

      “Weird,” Allison said. “It doesn’t make me feel any better.”

      McQueen raised his hands in defeat. “I’ll go.”

      She swallowed again. “Bye.”

      “Don’t forget there’s some mail for you in the box.”

      “Anything important?” She never got mail at McQueen’s address.

      “It’s a package from Oregon. No idea why it came to my house.”

      “Oregon?”

      She glanced in the box at the padded envelope. Sure enough, it was postmarked Clark Beach, Oregon. And the name on the return address read Roland Capello.

      Allison gasped, then clapped a hand over her mouth in shock.

      “Allison?” McQueen had been retreating during the conversation but now he rushed to her. “Honey, what’s wrong? You look like you’re about to faint.”

      “It’s from my brother,” she breathed. “This is from my brother.”

      McQueen stared at her like she’d grown a second head in the past three seconds.

      “Your brother?” he repeated. “I’ve known you seven years. You never told me you had