“We discussed everything we could. I spent the rest of the night in my car thinking about what to do next.”
“And?” I keep my tone flat, but my heartbeat starts doing things it has no business doing.
“And nothing.”
I blink. Once. Twice. Like my eyes are buffering. “That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
I stare at him. He stares back. He’s calm in a way that makes me want to scream because I’m the one who’s been up all night with guilt in my nerves.
“So what did she say?” I ask, and I hate how small my voice gets at the end.
He shakes his head. “I’m not doing that.”
“Not doing what?”
“Carrying messages.” His tone stays even, but there’s a line in his forehead that tells me he’s forcing the calmness in his tone. “You two need to talk. Without me.”
I scoff. “Oh well, ain’t you wise?”
His eyes narrow. “Francine.”
“Why are you here?” I ask. “Don’t you have training or something?”
He looks at me, then claps his hands once like he’s shifting an atmosphere.
“Get dressed.”
I laugh without humour. “Excuse me?”
“We’re going out.”
“I’m not in the mood.”
“I know.” He says it like he’s been expecting that exact response. “That’s why we’re going.”
I stare at him, trying to find the angle.
“What is this?” I ask. “Is this you trying to distract me so I don’t cry again? Or is this you trying to do boyfriend things without the title like you always do?”
His jaw flexes, then he exhales.
“Francine,” he says, softer. “You’ve been in your head for days. You’ve been in this flat like it’s punishment. You haven’t eaten properly.”
I open my mouth to argue.
He holds up a finger. “And before you start, I’m not saying you don’t deserve to feel what you feel. I’m saying you deserve one day where you’re not drowning in it.”
My chest aches in that very specific way it only does when someone says something true that I don’t want to accept.
“What if I don’t want to go out?” I ask.
He tilts his head. “You trust me?”
I hate that I do.
“…Yeah,” I admit, like it costs me something.
