Page 81 of Tell Me Again

His words fade into some fuzzy jumble of sounds as he keeps talking. But all I hear is “I have to leave.” And I’m suddenly far away, waiting outside our first-period classroom ten years ago, watching as he walks down the hallway toward me, his eyes trained to the floor in front of him.

“Hey, are you okay? I was gonna text you last night, but I didn’t want to in case your dad—” He walks right past me without looking up. I follow him inside. “Josh, hey, what’s—”

He shakes his head and waves me off, then he takes the single open seat near the front of the classroom.

And I’m left standing there. Alone.

Fuck.

Fuck, he can’t do this again. He can’t take off after we just...

I blink my eyes and try to clear my vision, and I’m nauseous. It feels like I might vomit. I mean, I won’t. No, I fucking won’t. But my stomach’s clenched in some painful way, and I don’t know what to do about it. I screw my eyes shut.

“Wh-wh-why? You told me—you said you were going to stay. So we could figure things out. That’s what you said? Why would you—why would you have to—” I’m fucking shaking. My voice is shaking. My hands are shaking, and somehow, I’m dizzy and hot and cold at the same time. Josh is holding both of my hands now, and I don’t know when that happened, but I pull them away and lift them up to rub my eyes.

I’m not fucking crying. I won’t. But he’s talking again, and I should probably listen. I screw my eyes shut as both of his hands settle on my thighs.

“...just for a couple days. Just to drive there and back. Brenna—”

“Drive where?” Fuck, I’m so lost. My ears are ringing, and yeah, I might vomit.

“Omaha. Just for a couple days, Coop. Not even that, maybe. But Brenna—”

“Fuck.” It’s a quiet curse, under my breath. I’m not so far gone that I forget there are customers sitting not fifteen feet away. But, really. Fuck.

“Can I explain? Please?” he says softly, and his hands are still on my thighs, closer to my knees now, though. I wish that made me feel as good as it had a minute ago.

Fuck.

I should listen to him, let him explain. He probably already tried to explain when I wasn’t really hearing his words. But something won’t let me. Something’s just shutting down that option.

I stand up and mumble, “I-I have to get back to work,” even though I know that’s not what I should be doing.

He jumps up from his seat and reaches out to grasp my arm. “Coop...” His voice is low, and I hear the plea in it. But I can’t look at him, and my hands are still shaking. Fuck, my knees are wobbly too. And I’m gonna vomit. Ahh, fuck.

“When, um, when will you be back?”

“T-tomorrow night. Or Sunday, at the latest. I think. I—”

“Right.” Fuck, he doesn’t even know. He can’t even tell me. Maybe he won’t even fucking come back at all. I can’t fucking do this again. I cough to clear my throat. “Okay, well, I-I really have to get back to work.”

He starts to protest, but I turn and walk toward the kitchen, shrugging away his hand on my arm. And I keep walking, even as I’m telling myself again that this isn’t what I should be doing. I should let him keep talking. I should let him tell me whatever his explanation is. Because he’d promised me, hadn’t he?

Maybe he hadn’t after all. Maybe I’m making things up in my head. Telling myself fucking fantasies and fairy tales. Stories full of fucking happily-ever-afters. But that’s never been my life. Me and my fucked-up life have never been part of any happily-ever-after.

I’m not sure why I expected it to start now.

I’m just ducking behind the counter on my way back to the kitchen when I feel his hand on my arm again.

“Coop, please—please wait. I can’t leave like this. I—”

I stop and close my eyes. “You shouldn’t—” My hands clench into fists, and I start over, lowering my voice to just above a whisper. “You shouldn’t fucking leave at all. You said—”

“I know. I know. And that’s what I’m trying to tell you. It’s Brenna. I have to take her back. She’s not—she’s—she really, really needs to go home. That’s the only reason. I swear, I wouldn’t—I—” His voice cracks, and he tugs on my arm, maybe to ask me to turn around. But when I don’t move, he steps in front of me and brings his hands up to frame my face.

I’m still not crying. I still won’t cry. But I can’t stop my hands as they come up to grasp his wrists. I’m not entirely sure if I’m going to push him away or hold him to me. He doesn’t give me a chance to decide. He stretches up to kiss me, and when our lips meet, it’s almost like my heart is being ripped in two directions at once.

God, I love him. But I’m also terrified. I’m terrified to lose this. To lose him. To lose us.

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