He stared at me. "You're really staying? In fucking Thunder Bay? You know there's like one good coffee shop, and it closes at 4:00 p.m., right? And the grungy diner is the only restaurant open past nine? And winter lasts approximately seventy-four years?"
"I've been here two weeks. I'm aware."
"And you still want to stay?"
"Yeah."
"Why?"
The real answer finally surfaced.
"Because you're here. Leaving would be easier, but I'm tired of doing the easy thing."
His breath caught for a moment.
"That's—fuck. That's not fair."
"What's not fair?"
"Saying things like that when I'm trying to stay mad at you."
"I'm not trying to manipulate—"
"I know. That's what makes it worse. You're being honest, and it's really hard to maintain emotional boundaries when you're standing here being all forthcoming and vulnerable like some kind of—I don't know—emotional maturity poster child."
Despite everything, I almost smiled. "Should I be less honest?"
"No. Absolutely not." He pointed at me. "You be honest. I also need you to know it's annoying."
"Noted."
We stood there. The parking lot was nearly empty. Rhett's truck waited across the lot.
Pickle glanced over. Back to me.
"I should go."
"Yeah."
"Adrian?"
"Yeah?"
"I don't hate you."
The words landed.
"Thank you."
"I'm mad, and I'm hurt. I don't know how long it'll take me to not be those things, but I don't hate you."
"I was worried about that," I admitted.
"Well, don't be. Hate would be easier, but it's not what I feel."
"What do you feel?"
"Confused. Scared. Kind of hopeful in a way that pisses me off."
