into anything. He’s always been able to do it.
And I can’t let him talk me out of this.
He freezes at the sharp sound of my voice.
“Listen to me, Richard,” I continue. “I need to get away right now. I need to. So please don’t try to stop me.”
“Okay. Okay, if you need space, I’ll give it to you. But don’t say this is over for good. I won’t believe it.”
“That’s not your decision. It’s mine.”
“But you said...” He trails off, as if the words hurt too much to get them said.
I should walk away right now. While I have the will to do so. But I can’t stand the haunted sound of his voice. “I said what?”
“You said that you...” He’s been staring at the sidewalk, but now he raises his gaze to meet mine. “You said you understood that I used to... work in the gray. You said you wanted me to be better, but it didn’t change how you felt about me. You said you... you cared about me anyway.”
I choke on another sob but don’t let it overwhelm me. “I do care about you, Richard. I love you.” He sucks in a breath at that, his eyes flashing with surprise and sudden hope. A hope I can’t let survive. “But it doesn’t matter. I was wrong about what I said before. What I thought before. I was... I let my love for you turn me into a hypocrite. Because I thought I understood the kind of thing you used to do to people.” I pause, swallowing hard. “But then I learned you did it to me.”
The words freeze him. The brief flash of hope dies in his eyes. I see it happen. It’s like he understands that what I just said was the final slice of the knife.
“Please let me go, Richard. I need to go. I can’t do this anymore. So please let me go.”
He’s still frozen. He gives a very faint inclination of his head. I can’t stand what I see on his face—what it proves about how much I’ve broken him—so I turn away.
Toward the hotel. I need to get my stuff. I need to change my plane ticket. I need to try to get through this day and the next one and the one after that.
Mostly, I need to go home.
THE NEXT FEW WEEKS aren’t good. In fact, they’re so bad they’re not worth describing. I go through the basic routine of my life, but everything I do hurts me. I cry in the shower, and I cry as I walk through the grocery store, and I cry in bed at night when I try to sleep.
It feels like mourning.
I knew it would be bad, but I didn’t know it would be like this.
Sometimes I don’t think I deserve to grieve so much for the loss of the relationship. After all, I’ve only known him for eight months, and I was only really dating him for a month. One month. Hardly any time in my life at all. And we never lived together—or even lived in the same city. Even in the month we were together, most of my time was spent without him.
But I loved him, and that was real. I’d started making plans for a future with him. For a life with him.
The loss of him—the loss of that future life with him—is real too.
I don’t hear from him. He doesn’t show up at my door and beg me to take him back like I half expected. I asked him not to do that. He’s always respected my wishes. I’m not sure why I’m surprised he’d respect my wishes in this too.
I think about him a lot. Wondering how he’s doing. Hoping he hasn’t fallen back into his old patterns. He wanted to start a new life, and I still want him to have that new life even if I won’t get to share in it.
It’s a rainy Friday afternoon, three weeks after I had gotten back from London, when I stop by to check my post office box. I usually check it every day since it’s my business address, but I haven’t been by for a few days. Most of my clients contact me by phone or email, so it’s usually just junk in it anyway.
But today there’s a letter.
A letter. In a plain white envelope, addressed by hand. The return address is from Boston.
Shrugging, I stick it in my bag and head home, tired and not looking forward to