Rhett moved closer. "It didn't end. We hit pause."
I kissed him—soft and lingering.
Then I was gone, boots thudding down the stairs, out into the cold. My Prius started on the second try. I sat there for a minute, forehead against the steering wheel, ribs aching, and my balls joining them.
My phone buzzed as I pulled onto the street.
Rhett:Drive safe
I smiled despite everything and drove home.
My apartment looked worse after seeing Rhett's. Yarn everywhere. Dishes in the sink. Three half-finished projects scattered across the couch.
I texted him.
Hog:Made it home. Ribs still hate me.
His response came fast.
Rhett:Ice them. Take something for the pain.
Hog:Yes, Mom.
Rhett:I'm serious.
I stared at the screen. Started typing. Stopped. Started again.
Hog:I'm sorry
Rhett:For what?
I typed the first stupid thing that popped into my head.
Hog:For being broken
Rhett:You're not broken. You're hurt. There's a difference.
Hog:Feels the same from here.
Rhett:It's not. And I meant what I said. This doesn't change anything.
I sat on my couch, phone in my shaking hands, and tried to believe him. I tried not to think about all the guys who'd said similar things before, but they quietly disappeared when the reality of me got to be too much work.
Hog:What if I'm always going to be a little damaged? What if this is just how it goes—want something good and my body reminds me I'm thirty and held together by scar tissue?
I hit send. Watched the dots appear on his end. Disappear. Appear again.
Rhett:Then I'll want you anyway. Scars and all. That's what choosing means.
I read it three times. Then three more.
Hog:You mean that
Rhett:Yeah, I do
I set the phone down, stared at my catastrophe of an apartment, and something shifted. Not fixed or healed. Maybe seen.
My phone buzzed one more time.
