He finally looks at me, and his eyes are tired. Dark circles underneath, like he hasn't been sleeping either. Like these days have been as brutal for him as they've been for me.
"What else would there be?"
"Me," I say quietly. "You left me."
Something flickers across his face—pain, maybe. Or anger. Both.
"You left me first," he says. "You just did it while I was still in your bed."
"That's not—"
"My cardigan, Knox. Please."
I go upstairs. The apartment feels empty without him in it, which is stupid—he was only here once, one night, a handful of hours. But I can still picture him in my kitchen, holding a mug of tea. In my bathroom, sinking into the bath I ran for him. In my bed, spread out and wanting, sayingpleaselike it was the only word he knew.
The cardigan is on my dresser, folded neatly. I pick it up, bring it to my face without thinking. It barely smells like him anymore. More like me now, from all the nights I've slept with it clutched against my chest like a fucking teddy bear.
Pathetic. I'm completely pathetic.
When I come back down, Robin's out of the car, standing next to Toby like a bodyguard. His expression makes it clear that he's ready to commit murder if I make one wrong move.
I hold out the cardigan.
Toby takes it, careful not to let our fingers touch. He clutches it against his chest—the same way I've been clutching it at night—and something in my heart cracks.
"Thanks."
He turns to go.
"Toby."
He stops but doesn't turn around.
"I'm sorry," I say. The words feel inadequate, pathetic, not nearly enough. "For not telling you. For not explaining what it meant. For letting you think you were just another—" I can't finish the sentence. Can't say the words. "I'm sorry."
"I know," he says quietly. "Jason told me."
"And?"
He does turn then, clutching the cardigan to his chest like armor. His eyes are bright—with anger or unshed tears, I can't tell.
"And I'm still processing. I'm still hurt." His voice shakes slightly. "You can't just—you can't claim someone without telling them what it means, Knox. You can't make them feel like the only person in the world and then let them discover they're just the latest in a long line."
"You weren't—"
"I know that now. But I didn't then." He takes a shaky breath. "I need more time."
"How much time?"
"I don't know."
"Toby—"
"Do you know what the worst part was?" he interrupts. His voice cracks, and he doesn't try to hide it. "It wasn't finding out about the others. It wasn't the drawer or the stories or any of that. It was that for a minute, I forgot I was just the nerdy librarian who reads too much and wears stupid cardigans. For a minute, with you, I felt like someone worth claiming."
"You are—"
"To you, maybe. Now. But Knox, I've been the forgettable one my whole life. The one people settle for when they can't get better. The one who gets left on the side of the road when he won't put out." His laugh is bitter, broken. "And for just a moment, I thought—" He stops. Swallows hard. "It doesn't matter."
