The appointment takes forty-five minutes. The orthopedist is cheerful and declares my ankle “healing beautifully.” I can start bearing partial weight and graduate to a walking boot in two weeks if everything continues to progress.
I’m relieved somewhere underneath the fog of exhaustion and emotional turmoil. But mostly I’m thinking about Eva sitting in a shitty hospital cafeteria, probably reveling in good cell service. She could call whoever she wants, complain about her annoying yeti neighbor who led her on and shut her down.
I hobble my way through the hall, staring at the sun shining through the windows. It’s a beautiful day. The kind of day that makes you want to do something outside—walk through the woods, sit on a porch, share coffee with someone, and watch the light change.
The kind of day I might have spent with Eva a week ago.
She looks up when I enter the cafeteria, which smells like mystery meat and bad coffee. I tip my head toward the door, and she gathers her things, looking sexy and out of place and right at home all at once.
We walk to the car in silence, but I can’t take another thirty minutes of this suffocating politeness.
“I’m sorry,” I say.
Eva’s hands squeeze the key fob. She doesn’t respond.
“For what I said about being neighbors. For pushing you away.” The words are rusty, awkward, like machinery that hasn’t been used in years. “I was an asshole, and you didn’t deserve it.”
She’s quiet for a moment. “Why did you?”
“Why did I what?”
“Push me away. What did I do?”
“Nothing.” The word comes out too fast. “You didn’t do anything. It wasn’t—it’s not about you.”
“Then what’s it about?” She unlocks the car, and I’m able to back myself in and wedge the crutches in with practiced ease. I stare at the dashboard. At my hands. At anything but her face.
“Me,” I finally say. “It’s about me. My stuff. My… issues.”
“Your issues…”
“Yeah.”
“You’re apologizing, which is asking for forgiveness, but you don’t want to elaborate?”
How do I say: I pushed you away because I wanted you too much, and wanting things has never ended well for me?
“I know,” I say. “I know it’s not enough. I just…” I run a hand through my hair, frustrated with myself. “I’m not good at this. At talking. At… feelings.”
“No kidding.”
Despite everything, I almost smile. There she is—the Eva who didn’t let me get away with my bullshit.
“I’m not asking you to forgive me,” I say. “I just wanted you to know I’m sorry. And it wasn’t your fault.”
Eva grows quiet. Classical music plays softly. Trees blur past the windows.
“Okay,” she says.
“Okay?”
“I hear you. I’m not ready to forgive you yet. But I hear you.”
“Thank you,” I say. “For the ride. For… hearing me.”
She nods, her eyes on the road.
We drive the rest of the way in silence, but it’s different now. Less empty. Less hollow.
