Whatisthis?
It’s me desperately wishing that he’d say anything other thanstay.
It’s me not understanding how someone who seesso muchcould thinkstayandI’ll give you a closetis the only answer. “I thought it was a lot of fun with someone who’s been one of the best friends I’ve had in a very, very long time.”
It’s honest.
But it’s not everything.
Do I want to go?
No.
Yes.
Dammit.
“Right,” he mutters. “And you don’t walk away from your job forfun, do you?”
“It’sthree months.”
“It’s youwalking fucking away.”
Oh god.
That’s what this is.
It’s not about him thinking he’s more important than I am. It’s not about him demanding that I give up my life for him.
It’s about him being more afraid than I am and completely unable to communicate it any other way.
“Fletcher—”
He climbs off the bed and heads to the bathroom. “Forget it. Don’t stay. Go to London. Go take your road trip. Go live your life. Have all the fun. Fuck all the fancy Englishmen. Piss your brother off.”
I desperately want my clothes back.
But more, I want to get on the other side of that door that just shut into the bathroom.
I leap up and cross the room to knock on it. “Fletcher. I’m not leaving you.”
“I didn’t say you were.”
“Fletcher.Yes, you did.”
“It’s been fun, but you have things to do. Places to go. Friends to make if you’re fucking brave enough.”
“I’m not fucking leaving you,” I repeat.
“Are you going to London?”
I’ve wanted nothing more than I’ve wanted this residency since I turned down the opportunity to go as a student for Miller.
Do I want to leave Fletcher right now?
No.
No, I don’t.
