Until the World Stops - L.A. Witt Page 0,77

from my parents. Before long, they only came from my dad. The virus had knocked my mom flat, and though she wasn’t in bad enough shape to need a hospital, she was too sick and out of it to talk to anyone. Every time my dad and I ended a call, I had to fight the urge to text Tristan—or just go to him and knock on his bedroom door—and ask if we could go find a parking lot and eat some takeout. We never had to touch again, but good God, the isolation was killing me.

But I was too much of a coward, and I was too afraid of making him feel obligated to spend time with me. Or worse—obligated to sleep with me.

I shuddered just thinking about how that must have felt for him. The lines had blurred for him, and I wanted to keep them clear and sharp, even if it meant we stayed on opposite sides.

So I went through the motions. Work. Home. Updates from the parents. Playing with the cat. Sleeping.

This morning, when I got up at 0400 to get ready for work, Tristan was, of course, still asleep. I wasn’t surprised, but I was relieved.

Numb and exhausted just like most days lately, I went through the motions of my morning routine. I fed Tilly. I put some coffee in a travel mug. I quickly packed a lunch since I’d forgotten to last night.

Then it was out the door—and walking back up to check twice that I’d locked it—before I got in the car and left.

I drove to work on autopilot. Didn’t hear the radio. Didn’t taste my coffee.

I still wanted to be pissed that Tristan had gone there. That he’d implied that there was any issue of consent between us. That I’d try to coerce him into sex by reminding him of all the things he’d lose if I decided I was done with our arrangement. I wanted to hate him for slamming on the brakes at the worst possible time—when I’d been desperate for some closeness and distraction after my mom’s diagnosis—but could I blame him?

I knew I would never in a million years strong-arm him or anyone else into sex. There was never any quid pro quo. But if I were in Tristan’s shoes, would it really be that black and white? Or would I always wonder?

Of course I knew the answer to that. In high school, I’d dated a guy who had a car, and being with him meant freedom I didn’t have on my own. I’d been desperate for that freedom, especially living in a Seattle suburb that had abysmal public transit and was well beyond walking distance from anything interesting.

He’d also been my first for nearly everything in the bedroom, and not entirely because I’d been ready for it. He had all the cards, just like I had them all now with Tristan. He’d never once pushed me, but he’d suggest we try new things and I’d go with it, and even now I couldn’t tell how much of that was because I wanted to and how much was because I felt like I had to. Like I owed him for the freedom that came with dating him, and that I’d better keep putting out if I wanted that to continue, even if I wasn’t necessarily ready to do the experimenting he wanted to do.

So how could I hold it against Tristan for doing what I’d been too much of a coward to do back then: putting his foot down and saying that as long as the lines were blurry between what he wanted with me and what he owed me, sex was off the table. I’d kept right on sleeping with my boyfriend, feeling worse about it as time went on, until we finally broke up for whatever stupid reasons high school boyfriends broke up. I still felt gross just thinking about everything I’d done with him that I wished I hadn’t. So who was I to judge Tristan for—

Up ahead, an unfamiliar white-trimmed blue house caught my eye, and I shook myself. Uh, where the hell was I?

I slowed down and looked around. Had I gone down the wrong road? What in the—

But then I recognized the dilapidated barn across the street, and realized where I was. I’d missed the turnoff to the base. The same one I’d made a million times in the almost two years I’d been attached to Point Providence.

Swearing under my breath, I