"Okay."
"I need to see what you do next. Not what you say. What you do."
"Understood."
He adjusted his bag. His fingers drummed the strap—one, two, three, pause, repeat.
"You hurt me, and you're trying to fix it. I see that, but I don't know if trying is enough yet."
"It might not be."
"Yeah. It might not be."
Another silence.
Pickle's expression changed. His careful neutrality cracked.
"You know what the worst part is? I want to forgive you. My stupid brain keeps trying to fast-forward to where we're okay again, but I can't. I—I can't have it happen again."
Pure honesty.
"I'm sorry."
"I know. You've said that. I believe you're sorry, but that doesn't undo watching me get turned into a joke. Sorry doesn't make me trust you again."
"No. It doesn't."
"So what does?"
"Time. And me doing what I said I'd do. Consistently."
He studied me. "You get it now."
"I think so."
"Youthink?"
"I know I hurt you and broke your trust, and I don't know if I've earned the right to say I understand the scope of what I did. That's something you'll have to tell me."
Pickle sounded a little surprised. "Huh. That was a good answer."
"It's the truth."
"Yeah, but usually when people fuck up, they want to decide when they've paid the price. You're letting me decide that."
"It's your decision."
I saw a hint of a smile. "The team threatened you, didn't they?"
"Multiple times."
"Hog?"
"Extensively."
"Jake?"
"Asked if I liked having all my teeth."
