Barrage Strategy Guide

I’m leaving.

Before I spoke the words, I made Lauren one last dinner.

Four of her favorite dishes—a meal that echoed the few sweet memories we’d ever shared.

There was the herb-crusted trout, just like the one we had on our first date. The garlic mashed potatoes were the very recipe she’d once praised, back when my cooking first caught her notice.

Candlelight flickered across the table, casting an almost too-perfect glow.

Lauren looked surprised. A rare smile touched her lips as she took in the spread. “What’s the occasion? This is… elaborate.”

“No occasion. I just wanted a nice meal,” I said evenly.

[Wow! He’s finally getting it! Using romance to win her back!]

[See? A couple’s spat, fixed with a nice dinner.]

[Lauren’s going to be so moved. Maybe she’ll even kiss him first!]

The comments buzzed with optimism.

Lauren sat, picked up her fork good-naturedly, and tried the fish. “Hmm, not bad. You’ve improved.”

I watched her. “Remember? Five years ago, that little restaurant by the lake. You told me it was the best trout you’d ever tasted.”

She paused, her expression blank. “Did I? I don’t recall.”

My heart sank. “What about three years ago, up in the mountains? You sprained your ankle while we were watching the fireflies. I carried you down for five hours.”

She frowned. “That happened? I don’t remember that at all.”

A bitter laugh escaped me. “Then you must remember your first book deal. I saved for half a year to buy you that Parker fountain pen. You hugged me and said I was the best person in the world.”

At the mention of the pen, something seemed to click—but her face stayed flat. “Oh, that pen. Ralph borrowed it, I think. Not sure where it ended up.”

Ralph.

Always Ralph.

Every precious memory I carried meant nothing to her.

A keepsake I’d treasured, she’d just handed off to someone else.

Finally, I understood.

It wasn’t a case of bad memory. She had simply never bothered to store any part of me in hers.

I took a deep breath, set down my fork, and looked her in the eye. “Lauren, we’re done.”

The air froze.

Her smile shattered. “What did you say?”

[!!! High alert! Is he serious?!]

[No! Take it back! He’s just angry!]

[Lauren, cry! Just cry and he’ll fold!]

The comments grew more frantic than she was.

I said it again. “We’re over. I’m moving out tomorrow.”

Her shock twisted into rage. She slammed both hands on the table and stood. “Anthony, have you lost your fucking mind?! Over some forgotten trivia? You think you can just walk away now? Who the hell do you think you are?”

She thought this was about the afternoon tea incident.

I shook my head, my voice still calm. “No. It’s about everything. Lauren, I’m tired.”

“Tired?” She barked a laugh. “You? A useless lump who sits at home all day? You have the nerve to say you’re tired? *I* support you. *I* put a roof over your head! Walk away from me, and you won’t last a week on your own!”

Right then, the doorbell rang.