“Why . . . what happened today?”
He exhales, and when he speaks, his tone is clipped. “I had a serious surgery. It’s . . . fine.”
I swallow hard. “Did it go okay?”
“Just about.”
Of course he was exhausted. He spent all day literally holding someone’s life in his hands while I was sleeping off my tantrum.
I am going to be sick. I am actually going to projectile-vomit onto the floor.
“Edward, I’m really sorry,” I whisper, the words pathetically small against the weight of what he’s telling me.
“It’s not your fault,” he says, but it feels like it is. “It’s mine. I’m responsible for my own actions. Anything I do or don’t do in theater is entirely my responsibility.”
I hear it then, in his clipped tone and perfect pronunciation—he’s not mad at me. He’s furious with himself.
I open my mouth to say something—anything—to fix this, but he cuts in first.
“I don’t have the mental capacity to do this right now. We can discuss it tomorrow.”
Everything inside me goes arctic cold.
I nod, even though he can’t see me. “Sure,” I croak.
A beat of silence. Then, “Good night,” before the line goes dead.
I stare at my phone through burning eyes, tears already tracking down my cheeks.
Because he’s right.
He is responsible for his own actions.
And I am responsible for mine.
And I fucked up. I am the most selfish asshole in the history of selfish assholes.
I don’t think. I don’t overanalyze.
I just go.
I show up at his house the next evening uninvited, heart pounding, hands shaking.
Because if I sit in my flat for another second, I’ll spiral.
The buzzer sounds like a death knell in the quiet Primrose Hill street.
Silence.
My stomach lurches. That’s bad.
I hear footsteps, then the door swings open.
Edward fills the doorway, looking like he hasn’t slept. Those deep blue eyes look tired as they find mine.
He doesn’t kiss me.
That’s worse.
