Then his voice comes out low and flat. "I just told you I'd choose you through decades of ordinary, through monotony,through you being impossible, and you still flinch?" His eyes go colder. "Then it's on you. You don't want me. Because if you actually wanted me, you wouldn't keep dangling reasons for me to let go."
"Ben, that's not—" I try to reach for him, but he backs toward the corner.
"No. I'm done proving myself. And this affair?" He turns and spits over his shoulder, "Over."
He walks away with long strides, swallowed by the crowd before I even have a chance to shake off what he said.
My heart beats a war rhythm against my ribs as I run after him through the main room that morphed into strobe-lit chaos, dancers twirling around.
I push through strangers, watching him edge out.
"Ben! Wait!"
Just then, Lucy's fingers catch my wrist and she yanks me toward her. "Where's he going? Hold up. You have to see—"
"Lu, I have to go—" My voice comes out panicked as I untangle myself.
She sees my face, hears it in my tone. She lets go.
"I'll make it up to you, I swear," I throw over my shoulder, already sprinting for the door.
When I get outside, the cold hits like a slap.
I rush to the telephone booth on the corner, scan every possible street.
They're all empty, even though they're not, but they are for me because he isn't there.
I call him and he mutes it almost instantly.
"Damn it," I hiss.
The cab driver must read my urgency and stops at the first slice of my hand.
I fold myself inside, the smell of some peppery perfume making me nauseous, or maybe it's not the scent, it's me.
Phone in hand, I keep calling, but he isn't picking up.
Shit. Why couldn't I just say those words? Why couldn't I get over my fear?
Because it's too much, it's too much, and I don't know how to get out of it.
Ben's voice loops in my head:Over. Over. Over.
No. I can't let that happen. Not like this.
I give the driver an extra tip for peeling all my nails on his back seat and leap from the cab like it's a race, passing the empty reception. Call the elevator, tap my fingers on the wall, tap my foot, tap my head—like it could hurry it up if I just keep at it. Curse under my breath becausewhy is it taking forever?
Finally the doors open and I press 40 frantically, like it's a code to salvation.
Upstairs, I rush through the hallway, turn my key, and unlock the door.
The apartment's dark, but I run through it anyway, even though I'd smell him if he was here.
Then I take a deep breath and collapse on the barstool, legs dangling, staring at the silence and sigh.
Ten minutes pass—or is it a hundred?—and he doesn't show up. So I try to collect myself and go to the twentieth floor.
The house isn't quiet when I walk in. Richard should be atbilliards, but he's on the couch, the TV glow flickering across the walls.
