Page 94 of The Pocket Pair

I don’t answer right away, scraping the charred chicken and onions from the pan onto the trash. Might as well toss the pan, too. It won’t ever be the same. But it’s not mine, it’s Chevy’s, so I’ll do my best to salvage it. Carefully, I set it on the stove and grip the edge of the counter.

Chevy’s face is impassive. He’s staring intently at the napkin he shredded while I was busy burning the heck out of dinner.

“I haven’t bought my ticket yet. I was tentatively supposed to start my apprenticeship or mentorship or whatever in a few weeks. Or a month. Luis Henry is flexible. And Mari says my room there is always open, so it doesn’t matter when.”

Chevy says nothing.

“Why do you ask?” My words sound pitiful. Soft and vulnerable and embarrassingly raw.

Because I’m getting a terrible sense about where this is going, and my tear ducts are already gearing up for mass production. My nose stings, and I clench my jaw, trying to hold it together and not assume the worst.

“I think it would be good to take a break when you go,” Chevy says.

We were on a break! The quote from Friends is my very first thought, and it isn’t at all funny in this context. But a choked laugh bubbles out of me anyway, turning into a sob.

“That’s it?”

Chevy drags a hand down his face, swiping it across his mouth. His eyes still don’t meet mine.

“I’m not saying it’s over, just that … maybe a break would be good for us.”

“You mean for you. Because a break certainly doesn’t sound good to me. We barely got started, Chevy. What happened? We can figure this out. Relationships take work. That’s okay. We can work through whatever it is—together. But you have to talk to me.”

I hate how desperate I sound. But the thing is—I’m not just fighting for our relationship here. I’m fighting for Chevy. I can feel the hurt practically radiating off him, and I remember what Winnie said about him being as emotionally available as an old boot. She was wrong, though. He’s more like a squished cockroach stuck in the tread of a boot at the bottom of a lake.

But I don’t want to leave him down there. I want to help him up. Because, our short-lived relationship aside, we were always friends. And friends don’t leave friends at the bottom of a lake.

“Chevy, talk to me. Please.”

He doesn’t move.

Something happened between the last time I saw him and now. It had to have. This didn’t come out of nowhere. But what? I trace back the day in my mind while my tears keep falling. This morning, he insisted we try making out on every single chair, couch, and stool in the house. Then I stopped by his work and—

My mind slams into that moment. There. I was in such a hurry that I barely registered anything other than Chevy, but now that I’m thinking back, something was off. He didn’t move in that chair. Didn’t try to pull me in his lap and kiss me. Which I didn’t think too much about because he was at work, and I was in a hurry. But he wasn’t himself.

Who was the guy he was talking to? I barely glanced at him and can’t remember his face now. But he wasn’t familiar.

“What happened today at work?”

He gives his head a slight shake, and I swear he tenses up even more.

“Let me help you.”

I’m back to begging. Which I wouldn’t do for me. Nope. In the past, when I’ve been broken up with, I pretty much ran off with my tail between my legs. I didn’t beg. I didn’t push for more. I didn’t argue about why. This is different. It’s not just a breakup.

Before me, I’m seeing a broken man. A man I really, really, REALLY love. And think I have for a long time.

This is about him. Not me. Not us.

I wish that made it hurt less.

His jaw flexes, and it makes all his gestures tighten. “I don’t need help. I need a break.”

Somewhere in me, an alarm is clanging because there is a breach. My heart just cracked wide open. And now the sadness is flowing out freely by way of tears and a runny nose. I plug it with a napkin as I round the counter, grabbing my purse.

Chevy grabs my wrist, and I pause, turning my ugly crying face in all its glory toward him. His blue eyes are a stormy ocean. They glisten, but no tears fall.

“I never wanted—I didn’t mean—” He stops. Swallows hard. Drops my wrist. “I’m sorry, Tiny.”

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