Cera
TWENTY-FIVE
Ash Wednesday: The morning after the revelry, the faithful are marked with ash and told to remember they are dust, the city turning from indulgence to reckoning overnight. She scrubs the last of the disguise down the drain and counts what the lie cost her, again.
Some cold part of me that has been holding it together all day takes satisfaction in watching it finally land on him. His shoulders go rigid. His eyes search my face for something he won't find there.
I step back from the door frame, and the movement makes him start forward, half a step, like he thinks I'm about to slam it in his face.
I want to.
I have wanted to do nothing but delete his number, forget the name Wells Stone, and never speak to him again since I left his apartment at one this morning.
"Cera."
His voice comes out rough when he says my name, like he's asking permission to keep talking.
I shake my head.
"No. There's nothing to say, Wells."
"Listen to me, please."
"I don't want to hear anything you have to say right now."
"Cera—."
"Get out of my building, Wells."
He doesn't move. His hand comes up and braces against the door frame, and the vein in his neck pulses. His breathing picks up slightly, enough that I can hear it over the drone of the fluorescent light in the hall.
"Let me explain."
"How do you explain a lie?"
"I didn't lie."
My laugh comes out broken. I know I probably look and sound like a crazy person, because I am. This has pushed me over the edge.
"You didn't lie? Are you serious right now?"
"I never told you I wasn't him."
"Because I didn't know to ask, Wells. Withholding information is lying. Don't insult me on top of everything."
His mouth tightens, and his hand drops from the door frame. His eyes move past me into my apartment, scanning the room like he's looking for something he can fix or defend against.
"Let me come inside so we can talk."
"No."
"Then hear me out."
My voice climbs and the pressure builds at the base of my skull, the kind that comes right before I lose control completely.
"I told you to leave."
His voice rises to meet mine, and I'm suddenly aware we're both too loud for this hallway, for this building, for the people on the other side of these doors who can probably hear every word.
"You can't throw this away without understanding everything that led to this moment."
"I don't owe you anything."
"You don't owe me anything, you're right. But I'm asking."
A door creaks open down the hall. I don't look but I know we are drawing looks now. A woman's face appears in my peripheral vision, eyes curious. We're making a spectacle.
My skin flushes hot. This is my space, my building, the one place I clawed back for myself after everything fell apart, and now he's standing here turning it into a scene.
But that's not why I step back. There's a sick part of me, the one that whispers in the back of my head that I'll never get the true love I've always wanted, the different love than I experienced my whole life. I want to hear why he lied so I can justify it.
"Fine. Get inside."
I close the door behind him, and the sound of the latch is too small for what just walked in.
Wells steps into the center of the room but doesn't go further. He stops near the coffee table, hands loose at his sides, shoulders squared. He looks bigger in here than in his place, with ceilings twice as high and now walls, just glass. He fills the space until I can't breathe.
I move away from him, around the edge of the couch, putting furniture between us.
My arms cross over my chest, and my grip on my arms cuts off the circulation. It's the only thing holding me together.
"Let's hear it so you can get the fuck out of here and my life."
He opens his mouth, then closes it. His throat works, and his eyes stay on mine.
"I didn't know at first."
I don't believe him. And even if that is true, no amount of time is acceptable.
"When?"
He hesitates, and I can tell he's measuring his words. I don't have time or patience to pussyfoot around this. I want raw truth and no padding.
"Wells. When did you realize?"
"A few weeks ago."
The air leaves my lungs in a rush. A few weeks. I count backward in my head. I think of all that happened after he knew.
"You've known for a few weeks, kissing me, making love to me, making me care about you and trust you like I've never trusted anyone and never said a damn thing."
"I didn't want to lose you."
"Well, you just fast-tracked that one."
He takes a step forward, and I hold up a hand. He stops.
My voice cracks, and I swallow hard, forcing the words out before I lose them.
"You found out who I was, and you kept going as if you didn't know. You took the version of me I gave to a black screen, and you used it to get closer to the rest of me. There are things you know about me that I never told you, and that's fucking bullshit."
He flinches.
"Only one of us was ever in the dark, and it was me the whole time. God, I can't tell you how pissed I am right now."
"It wasn't like that."
He closes his mouth and then opens it again to say more, but nothing comes out. His hand lifts and then drops.
I shake my head. The pressure behind my eyes builds so hard I have to blink to clear them.
"I grieved you."
The words come out raw, and I watch them hit him harder than anything else I've said. His breath catches. His face goes slack, color draining fast, and his eyes lock on mine.
"When Midnight disappeared, I sat at my desk in your building and I mourned him.
It truly hurt me, Wells. The way you left and deleted everything and walked away without a word was cruel.
Did you do it like that so I would turn to Wells, so you could have me all to yourself, use the vulnerability to control whatever it was we were building? "
His hand comes up to his face and he drags it down, mouth open, no sound.
The silence stretches. I wait for him to say something, anything.
"You're not proving you're innocent by telling me the lie was recent. You're confessing that every single day since you found out was a day you chose not to tell me. And the days that mattered most to me were the ones where you kept choosing silence."
He exhales hard, shoulders dropping, and his voice comes out low and raw.
"You're right."
The agreement hits me harder than an argument would have. I wanted him to push back, to give me something to fight against so he could prove me wrong, he could show me how this is different.
There is no defense, no excuse, no attempt to rewrite what he did into something softer.
He opens his eyes and looks straight at me.
"I will tell anyone you want what I did, how I betrayed you. Ridge. HR. Your friend. I'll never lie to you again, never withhold anything from you."
He's trying to make this lie different than the one my parents built our life on. But what he doesn't get is that the original lie, the betrayal, is the point. And it can't be undone, no matter what he says or does now.
"It doesn't matter."
He goes still.
"It doesn't matter how sorry you are, Wells. You can be devastated and you can tattoo it across your forehead, but it doesn't change what I now know."
His face shifts, and I see the question before he asks it.
"Which is what?"
"That I don't get to be loved without a lie underneath it. That I'm always the last one to know the truth about my own life."
I watch my words land on him. His hand drops from his chest. His breathing goes shallow.
He turns his head to the side and purses his lips before turning back to me, his eyes locking on mine.
"I'm not doing this, Wells," I say calmly. "There's nothing you can say or do that will undo what has been done. I will never trust you fully again, and I can't live like that."
I take a breath, and it hurts going in.
The silence stretches. I watch him accept it. He can't argue the point. He can't reframe it into something softer. He nods once and keeps his gaze on my eyes.
I realize he's not going to try to change my mind.
That should feel like relief.
"I need you to leave."
He straightens and turns toward the door. He moves slowly. His hand closes around the doorknob before he stops.
I force the words out before I lose them.
"I'm leaving Stone Intermodal."
He turns his head but doesn't look back at me fully.
"I can't walk into that building and sit across from you. I can't do the work and pretend this didn't happen. It's too painful."
He faces me now, his expression is unreadable.
"Don't let me ruin everything for you. I can transfer you, have you report to someone else."
"I've already decided."
"What will you do?" His question lands like control. It takes my sadness and turns it back into anger.
"It's none of your business, Wells, what I do."
"Cera," he starts, but doesn't finish the thought. I'd prefer not to know what he was about to say. It's best for everyone to make a clean break.
"I'll make sure you get a severance."
I don't know what to say to that. It will help, so I don't refuse it.
I nod.
"Okay."
He watches me for another beat, then opens the door and steps into the hallway. The latch clicks shut behind him, and the sound is too quiet for what just ended.
Staring at the door, I wait for the reprieve to come. It doesn't. He didn't argue or push. He did what I asked and left. I want to hate him for going, but I can't, and somehow that's worse.
I wait for the sound of the elevator.
Then it comes. The soft chime, the mechanical hum, followed by the doors closing around him.
Then silence.
My knees unlock, and I fold forward, one hand pressed flat against the door to keep myself upright. The other comes up over my mouth, pressing hard enough to hurt. My breath pushes against my palm, fast, and I can't seem to slow it down.
I lower myself to the floor.
The hardwood bites into my knees, and I pull them up to my chest, wrapping both arms around my shins. My forehead drops, and I squeeze my eyes shut, but the tears come anyway.
I hold myself together until my ribs ache from the effort, until my teeth ache from clamping them down and my throat burns from the pressure of keeping everything contained.
Then I stop trying.
The first sob breaks out rough and cracks me wide open.
The rest pour out after it, the kind of crying that leaves me shaking and gasping and unable to catch a full breath.
I curl tighter and rock forward until my forehead presses against my knees and the whole world narrows to the sound of my own breaking.
I cry until there's nothing left, until I'm wrung out, my face swollen and raw.
I lift my head and wipe my eyes with the back of my hand. My phone sits on the coffee table where I left it when Wells banged on my door while I was talking to Locke. I reach for it to call him back like I promised I would.
He answers on the second ring.
"How did it go?"
"It was awful. I never would have thought I'd see him like that, so broken. But I told him I can't, I won't do it."
"Good."
The single word steadies me.
"I told him I'm quitting, too."
Locke exhales slowly.
"I don't know what I'm doing," I say, no more tears left to cry.
"Yes, you do. You're choosing you."
He lets the silence sit between us for a second, then his voice comes back firmer.
"It doesn't feel like I'm choosing me. It hurts so bad."
I press my hand against my chest, and the uneven rhythm of my heartbeat thuds under my palm.
"I emailed you the information on the ashram, the one in Kerala. I want you to seriously consider going. It will help you heal."
I shake my head even though he cannot see it.
"Locke, I can't let my apartment go. I can't just pick up—."
"You can."
"The lease. The bills. I don't have that kind of money saved up."
"You have enough. Didn’t you say your lease is month-to-month since before Shitbird left? Give notice and worry about what comes after when that bridge comes. Let the apartment go, let the job go, let all of it go."
I close my eyes and nod.
"Okay."
"You'll look into it?"
"Yeah, I will."
I end the call and sit there with the phone in my lap for I don't know how long. Time has no concept today. Everything is a blur, like I'm slogging through mud, just trying to get to solid ground.
I get up and walk over to the sofa, pull my laptop onto my knees and open my lease to confirm it is month-to-month. It is, just like I remembered, just like Cas threw at my face when he asked us to downsize after losing my job.
I wouldn't do it then. I wasn't ready. But Locke is right. I need to clear it all out, remove all of the pressures and stress, and start fresh.
I write my landlord a short email giving thirty days notice and send it before I can realize this is completely irresponsible.
Then I open a blank email to Sandra Benney.
I type three lines.
I am resigning my position effective immediately. I need to take time to care for my mental health. Thank you for the opportunity.
I read it twice. It's plain and true. I don’t soften it to make anyone else comfortable.
I hit send.
The laptop screen flashes, and the email disappears into the sent folder. I close it and set the laptop on the coffee table, then lean back against the couch. Those two tasks give me just a little relief, like I'm taking action.
They also scare the ever-loving shit out of me.