He closes his eyes, as if searching for the answer inside his own skull. “Because I can’t stop thinking about you. Because I’m miserable without you, and I don’t have a single goddamn clue what to do about it.”
I stare straight ahead, still unable to hold his gaze.
“And I didn’t want you to be alone tonight. Not after everything.”
For a second, I want to say thank you, or that I wasn’t alone tonight, or even fuck you for showing up here when I was finally learning to forget.
Instead, I ask, “Do you want some water?”
He blinks, caught off guard by the normalcy. “Yes. Please.”
I pour two glasses and set them down.
There’s a pause, a long exhale where the world seems to shrink to the hum of the fridge and the slosh of water in our glasses.
James reaches out, not quite touching me, but his hand hovers in the space between us. “Are you okay?”
It’s the most dangerous question in the world, and I hate him for asking it.
“Not really,” I say. “But I’m getting better at pretending.”
“You don’t have to pretend with me. I’m hurting too.”
The admission doesn’t help, only hurts more.
“We both knew what we were doing was wrong, and now we have to live with the consequences. No matter how painful they might be,” I say, and I know the words sound harsh.
James nods, and I swear I can feel him deflating. I can feel it in myself, too.
He finishes his cake and wipes his mouth with the napkin, as if he’s wrapping up a business lunch. “I should go.”
I don’t argue. I follow, stopping just shy of him. There’s a tension, and for a moment I’m sure he’s going to reach for me, or I’ll reach for him, or maybe we’ll both pretend none of this ever happened and eat cake together until the end of time.
He stands in the threshold for a second, then turns back, and gently kisses my forehead. “Happy birthday, Avery.”
All I can do is nod, and watch as he disappears down the hallway.
After the door closes, the apartment feels two sizes too big. I eat the last forkful of cake standing at the kitchen counter, letting the sugar settle into my bloodstream.
For a long minute, I do nothing. Just listen to the tick of the fridge, the subtle creak of the building, Salem’s claws skittering somewhere out of sight.
I clean up the counter. The remainder of the cake goes into the fridge. I rinse the plates and watch the steam curl up against the overhead lights.
I’m exhausted. Not just in the way of a long day, or even a long week, but in the way that suggests something has been fundamentally emptied out within me. I try to imagine what it would take to refill it. Maybe sleep, or a lobotomy.
I drift toward the bedroom, cake aftertaste clinging to my molars, making the inside of my mouth sticky and sweet.
Brushing my teeth, I take a good, long look at myself in the mirror. I don’t just look exhausted. I look wrecked, completely drained. For a second, I have the strange urge to apologize to my own reflection, but even that feels like more work than I can handle right now.
I finish brushing and splash water on my face. I strip down to my underwear and crawl into bed, pulling the sheets up to my chin.
I don’t sleep. Not at first. I just lie there. When I finally reach for my phone, the screen’s blue glare is like a slap.
There are seventeen unread notifications.
There’s a cluster of messages from my law school friends, group texts full of inside jokes and the kind of performative love you only get from people who survived three years of hell with you. Each message is a slight comfort, but also a reminder of how far I’ve drifted from all of them. From who I was.
There’s a message from my parents in the family group chat. My mother has sent a text that says, “Wish we could be together! Love you always, Mom & Dad.” My dad has replied with a string of emojis, none of which are relevant to the context. I don’t answer, but the ache in my chest is less brutal, a more dull throb.
