This is it! The final chapter of Enough. I want to thank everyone for their kind words and for reading this over the past couple of months. It honestly means the world to me and you'll never know how grateful I truly am. I'm not gonna stop writing Carla and Nick just because... well, they ended in a way that can only be described as shocking. I'm going to carry on. And I may carry on with a continuation-esque thing if I feel there's reason to in upcoming scenes, so be on the lookout for that. In the meantime, thank you all so, so much for reading and reviewing. I really hope you enjoy (if that's even the correct word) this last chapter!
Enough
He wants to talk and she isn't there, and it's too late. It's all too late.
He goes to the flat. Gets no answer. This isn't what surprises him; it's the eeriness of the knock. Like inside is empty and the angry part of him, the part that is overwhelming, is glad. Maybe she feels as empty as he does, as hurt and upset and alone. Maybe she's ran away; maybe she's reverted to type. The type he can spew however much nonsense he likes about to stick the knife in, to make her feel worse than she ever thought possible, but all it manages to do is remind him of what he's lost. Not only her, not only them, but his sense of self. To throw all she is back in her face when he only knows half a story, half of the life they shared for half of the time they had been together, is overwhelming wrong.
He has this constant knot in his stomach only she can untie. Maybe now he can begin to understand how it feels to be her.
After a few minutes have passed, he pulls out his key, the keyring a trinket she bought him for Christmas. Nicky. He blinks away tears and lets himself in. He is unprepared for what he is met with. The place is almost empty and it is not like before. There are no boxes or remotes or bits of food and magazines – there are no signs of life. She is not moving in this time; she has already moved out.
He pauses at the door. Looking forward, he catches his reflection in the television screen. He has come directly from the gym. He looks a state; he is a state. Slowly, he closes the door behind him and walks into the kitchen. His footsteps echo.
On the table, there are suitcases, open so he can see what's inside. His things have been packed into them neatly, dare he say lovingly. Clothes and shoes and cologne and his watch and his books and everything. It's all there. Everything kept at his home from home, and he can't even look at it. He can barely see.
He places both hands on the kitchen counter to steady himself and breathes heavily in through his nose and out through his mouth. It hurts. God, it hurts more than he can explain.
She's really gone.
He didn't even hear her out.
Gasping, he approaches his things, stumbles towards them. He can see now what he didn't before – a frame, an letter missing an envelope, a ring.
He has to calm himself before he dares touch any of the three. The ring is taken first, held flat in the palm of his hand. White gold. So delicate, especially compared to his own. He's weak. Because he will, and he knows he will, take it with him and place it in the box they bought it in, next to his own, ripped off in a rage, but not thrown. Not lost. Kept.
He carefully pockets it and takes a deep breath. The frame. The wooden frame and the monochrome picture. We're supposed to be having a happy Nick day! He feels sick. He has to take a step back. He can see now, see it all; all that happened that day. Getting Liz to take a stupid, insincere picture just to wind Tracy up. To get one over on her; one nil to Carla. That poisonous bitch knew he was a fool. He is a fool. He's a fool because there is no element of that picture that is stupid. That is not genuine. His fingers trace her smile and he aches, he almost whimpers. He wonders if she'll ever smile again like that. Hates himself for wondering if she even deserves to.
The first line of the letter is Nick.
Nick.
He reads on with baited breath and every word takes him further and further away from her, from the secret hopes he had in coming here in the first place.
I've left. For real this time. And I'm not coming back, so don't worry. I wouldn't do that to you.
Here's your stuff. I think I've got everything. I packed in a rush. If I've taken any of your stuff, or anything that was ours, and you want it back, tell Johnny or Michelle or someone you can stand. I can get it back to you.
I've gone to Devon. To our cottage. I know it's half in your name and half of the money we used to buy it is yours, but here's the name of my solicitor —
And she's given a name, an address, a number.
We can sort it out along with the annulment. I'll buy it off you. All you have to do is name a price.
For now, you can use the flat. It is yours in everything other than name.
You can bin the frame if you want to. I took the other one, the one before I ruined us. When we happy. In case you were wondering where it was. I don't know, Nick. It's up to you.
I mean everything I ever said to you.
And I am sorry. I want you to know that if nothing else. I didn't want to hurt you. I didn't want us to hurt each other.
"You are going to hurt me, Carla. And I am going to hurt you. But you know what?"
"What?"
"I don't care."
I'm sorry I wasn't enough.
He's the sorry one. He doesn't think he's ever going to stop being sorry.