“That’s very diplomatic of you, Counselor.”
“I’m a litigator. Diplomacy is ninety percent of the job.” I pause. “The other ten percent is controlled aggression.”
He laughs again. His thumb brushes across my knuckles. Once. Twice. A rhythm that feels like Morse code for something neither of us can say out loud.
“For what it’s worth,” he says quietly, “I’ve regretted it every day since.”
My throat feels tight. “Regretted what? The choice or the outcome?”
“Both. But mostly, I’ve regretted not calling you. Not telling you the truth. Until now.”
We sit there in the dark, hands clasped, listening to the storm rage outside.
I should pull away. Reinstate the boundaries. Remind myself of all the very good reasons why this is a terrible idea.
But his hand in mine feels like the first honest thing that’s happened between us in five years.
And maybe that’s worth more than all my careful defenses. “Corin?”
“Yeah?” he asks.
“Thank you. For telling me. Can we just... sit here... and hold each other?”
His fingers tighten around mine. “Yes. Thank you.”
The futon sags further in the middle... physics and exhaustion pull us closer together.
My head ends up against his shoulder.
His cheek rests against my hair.
Neither of us repositions.
10
Corin
We’ve been sitting on this futon for hours.
After I told her about Diana and Leena, after she reached for my hand, we just stayed like that. Her fingers laced through mine. Her head on my shoulder. My arm around her because where else was it going to go?
I should feel exposed. Like I just handed her ammunition she could use to destroy what’s left of my fragile reputation.
Instead, I feel lighter.
Because here’s the thing about confessions: you don’t show your hand unless you’re holding all the cards or you’ve got nothing left to lose.
I’m not quite sure which category I’m in right now.
Part of me wants to take it back. Rewind. Tell her I was exaggerating or that the details were murkier than I made them sound. Protect myself the way I’ve been protecting myself for half a decade.
But the other part, the part that’s been hemorrhaging since New Year’s Eve, just wants to stay exactly like this. Holding her. Breathing in the scent of lemon peel and bug spray and rain.
Fuck it.
I told her.
It’s done.
