Page 27 of If He Hadn't Cheated
“Did you sleep alone?”
”Yes.”
“Eating?”
“Not really.”
He takes a sip of his drink. “You need to stop pretending that this is normal.”
I brace my hands against the bar and stare at the wood grain.
“What if this is all I have left?” I ask. “And why do you care if I slept alone?”
“It’s not and I do care.”
“You don’t know that and why should you care?”
“Yes, I do.”
I meet his eyes. They’re steady. Clear. Annoyingly calm. “I used to think I was strong,” I say. “I used to think I could carry anything.”
“You still can.”
“Then why do I feel like I’m made of glass?”
“Because you’ve been dropped too many times.”
I let out a breath. It’s almost a laugh. “You think you’re clever.”
“I’m not walking away. Not this time.”
His words are soft, but they land hard. And for a second, I don’t know what to do with the feeling that someone is still here. That he came for me.
Still seeing me.
Still staying.
Back in high school I should have fought harder when he said he wasn’t ready. I shouldn’t have settled when he was my first choice.
Later, after closing, I find myself walking again.
Not far. Just around the block. The air is cold and clean. The sky is bruised with clouds. I wrap my arms around myself and try to feel something.
Anything.
Knox is outside when I circle back. Leaning against his car, a small blunt between his fingers, coat open to the wind.
He doesn’t look surprised to see me.
“I thought you left,” I say.
“I thought you might need someone to take you home.”
“I’m not a child.”
“Didn’t say you were. Let’s walk.”
We walk in silence. Side by side. Our feet fall into the same rhythm without trying. It feels like something from before. Before the betrayal. Before the pills. Before the lies.
