12. Chapter 12
Chapter twelve
O nce he’s fully clothed, T comes to me with his hands shoved deep in his pockets, as if he’s hiding them. I wonder what they would do if he released them. Would they reach for me? Touch me? Hug me?
I’ll never know. There’s a distance between us, a frigid tundra colder than the air conditioning that blasts over my head.
“Well, uh, thanks,” he says, his eyes focused on something over my shoulder. I glance behind to see what has him so fascinated but there’s nothing, just emptiness.
I force my arms to stay at my sides. I will not reach for him. I refuse to be the only one reaching.
“Yeah.” My voice has lost all inflection. Something in me is dying a slow, tortuous death. “You too. Thanks.”
“Well…” He rocks on his heels, seemingly at war with himself. “I’m not sure what to say. My wife—ex—whatever. I promised her I’d try, and I feel like I should let her know what’s happened. That I can do it now.”
His throat works. His jaw flexes. His voice is careful, deliberate. Like he’s trying to convince himself as much as me.
“We’ve been together a long time,” he continues. “I can’t just throw that away.” A pause. “That makes sense, right?”
A cruel, awful part of me wants to scream no at him. No, it doesn’t make sense. That same part wants to say that I don’t care about his promises or his obligations. That if he chooses to walk away from me, he’s a coward.
But that would be a lie. Because I do understand.
It makes perfect sense. Of course he has to try.
And the saddest part? If I were in his shoes, I’d make the same choice.
Wouldn’t I?
He watches me carefully, the corners of his mouth pulling downward. “Are you…gonna be okay?”
What am I supposed to say to that?
No, actually, I’m going to shatter into a million pieces. You’re about to walk out that door and take something from me that I can’t name but know I’ll never get back.
Or worse—should I ask him to choose me ?
Demand he throw away a lifetime for someone he just met?
I can’t do that.
I won’t stand in the way of his happiness.
I do what I always do. I take the hit, let it carve into me like a blade, let the pain lodge itself so deep it’ll take years to dig out.
I pull the same old, tired armor over my heart. I force my lips into the best fake smile I’ve got, the one I’ve been perfecting for years, and pitch my voice high and bright.
“I’m great.”
Lie .
As if we were strangers—which, I remind myself, we are—I say, “It was nice to meet you.”
He searches me, his gaze heavy with suspicion. As much as I’m hurting right now, I just want this to be over. To rip off the Band-Aid and bleed out somewhere else. Anywhere but here. The back of my nose stings with unshed tears, but I already broke my rule once and look where it got me. I won’t make that mistake again.
I stare at him without blinking, silently projecting the message of I don’t care. I’m fine. You didn’t hurt me.
“Okay…” He hesitates. The silence stretches out painfully long. “I guess, thanks again and good luck.”
Good luck.
Like this was some kind of job interview. As if we hadn’t just laid each other bare, held each other, whispered that we love each other.
Like none of it meant anything.
“You too!” I say, forcing cheer into my voice. I even wave. As if he’s stepping onto the Titanic and I’m standing on the dock, sending him off with a big, bright bon voyage smile.
His face twists like he’s in physical pain. It pinches with discomfort, maybe even disappointment, then evens out, the expression fleeting—gone in a second.
He gives one sharp nod.
Then he turns.
And walks out the door.
It hasn’t even swung shut before I crumple to my knees, sobbing onto my bent forearms. Nausea rises in me. The room spins.
When Dr. D speaks, I want to scream, to shatter the window that separates us so I can strangle him with my bare hands. I’m unable to take responsibility, too busy wallowing in my misery, so I put the blame on him, on T.
“This is normal, Kristi,” he says. “All patients get attached. It’s part of the process.”
“He didn’t,” I sob. “T wasn’t attached. He just walked away like it was no big deal.”
“It’s just as hard on him as it is on you.” The doctor’s voice is surprisingly gentle. “He handles his pain differently, that’s all.”
“No,” I say stubbornly. My shadows are back, whispering, pointing out all my flaws. “He didn’t care. It was all a lie. He just needed to fuck me so he could get over his problem. Once it was solved, you saw what happened—how quickly he ran out of here, back to her.”
I take in a shuddering breath and scream at the mirror, “You shouldn’t mess with people’s feelings like this. It’s fucked up!”
“But you got what you wanted, right?” the voice says.
Did I? Get what I wanted?
Nothing is clear to me right now. I’m too overwhelmed. Too gutted to think rationally. Like an overstimulated teenager, I scream, “I hate you!” and run from the room, out into the street.
The moment I push through the doors, it’s like stepping onto another planet. The world is too bright, too alive. Sunlight slants between scattered clouds. Car horns blare. Voices rise and fall in easy conversation. A gust of air carries the smell of the city—sweat, hot pavement, the sewer beneath my feet.
I stumble forward, vision swimming, dodging pedestrians who shoot me wary glances. Two blocks. That’s as far as I get before my body gives out. My knees buckle, and I sink to the sidewalk, back against a brick wall, gasping for breath.
No one stops. No one asks if I’m okay. And I’m grateful for it. The best—and worst—part of living in New York.
A sob claws its way up my throat. I clap my hands over my ears, desperate to shut it all out, but it’s useless. His words are still there. Replaying in my head, over and over.
“I love you.”
I can’t believe I listened.
Let myself hope.
Fucking liar.
No one loves me.
Least of all myself.