Page 142 of Come Break My Heart Again

“Oh. Is that … normal?”

Probably not because I’m not. He made me different.

“No idea. Considering there’s sixty seconds in a minute, that’s about a breath every four seconds—that sounds about right.”

“How many breaths do you take in a minute?” I ask.

“No idea.” He sounds … amused. “I was staring at a clock, and all I could hear was you breathing, so I just … counted.”

We revert to silence.

Once upon a time, I imagined this would be every night. That talking to him at three a.m. would simply require rolling over and facing the pillow next to mine. I don’t know how to say that—I shouldn’t say that—so I just soak in this moment. Right now, talking to Ryder is just a matter of opening my mouth. This is my alternative reality—a brief chance to experience part of how I hoped my life might turn out.

Maybe he gets that.

Maybe he doesn’t know what to say to me.

“You answered.”

Ryder doesn’t reply right away. Finally, he says, “You called.”

“I wanted to know if you’d answer.” Better than admitting I wanted to listen to silence with him.

“Youcalled,” he repeats.

This time, he emphasizesyou. Makes it sound like that makes a difference. Likemycall matters, and I resent theimplication—that he has any investment in communicating with me after years of ensuring all means of contact were sealed off.

“I couldn’t call forseven years. You made it so I couldn’t eventalkto you, Ryder.”

I’m mad at him about a lot. I’m maddest about that. How easily he tossed me aside.

I heard what Tucker told me. But it doesn’t feel like enough of an explanation. Ryder loved me so much that he wouldn’t let me see him? He loved me so much that he broke my heart … again? How could he not consider—not appreciate—that I would have done anything to see him? That him shutting me out was a spectacular sort of torture?

Another long pause.

Then, “I know.”

“That’s all you have to say?”

“That, and I’m sorry.”

“I don’t want your apology.”

“What do you want then?” The question is sincere, not exasperated.

You. Pride and common sense keep that syllable from slipping out of my mouth.

We’re over. We’ve been over. We’ll stay over.

I wanted this to feel wrong. To be awkward. For hearing his voice to not help. But the silence where my answer should be isn’t uncomfortable. It’s just noticeable. Heavy.

“I have everything I want,” I lie. “My life is great.”

I could go anywhere I want. Be anyone I want.

And I’d still choose to be lying here, listening to Ryder breathe.

It’s my favorite sound in the world, I think. It means he’s near. Alive.

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