He keeps talking, voice monotone. “Vincent told me you were… He said you were connected to some white supremacist thing. Sent me a photo. Said you knew about the shooting before it happened. That you—” His jaw clenches. “That you were one of them.”
I stare at the water, at the blurred city skyline beyond. My stomach flips, but the anger is clean, bright, easier than fear.
“You believed him?” I say, and it comes out hard, sharper than I meant.
He nods, slow. “For about a week, I did. And I’ll carry that for the rest of my life.”
I let that hang, because there’s nothing else to do.
He looks over, and his eyes are wet, but he doesn’t blink it away. “I’m sorry, Ash. I should have come to you. I should have trusted you.”
I want to yell, or cry, or just punch him in the arm for being such a dumbass, but all I do is shake my head. “Why didn’t you just ask me?”
He swallows. “I was scared. Not of you. Of what it would mean if I was wrong. And the thing I'm most ashamed of is this, it was easier to believe the lie than to risk finding out it was true. Easier to shut down than to come to you and ask. That's the part I'll never forgive myself for.”
He sets the letter down between us. “You said in here that I made you feel like you mattered. But I’m the one who needed that. I never said it, because I thought I had to be the strong one.”
I pick up the letter, flick through the pages. “I wrote you four pages about how I feel, and you haven’t said anything about that.”
He smiles, weak. “Every word. I feel every word.”
The air is wet with the promise of rain. The fog is burning off the bay, slow, and the sun is trying to punch through, not quite making it.
He puts his hand on the bench, palm open, waiting.
I don’t take it, not at first.
“I’m still pissed,” I say.
He nods. “You should be.”
“But I don’t want to do this alone anymore,” I say, and the words almost break me.
He looks at me, really looks, and his face is stripped down to the bone.
He slides his hand closer, just a few inches. “Can I…”
I grab it before he finishes.
His hand is warm and callused and shakes when I squeeze it.
We sit there, not talking, watching the water and the city and the world that just keeps going, no matter what. The pain is still there, but it’s different now.
Not a hole, but a bruise, already starting to heal.
After a while, he says, “You ever want to skate together again?”
I squeeze his hand, let the hint of a smile break through. “Only if you promise not to let me win.”
He laughs, just once, and it’s real.
We sit on the bench until the sun is up, until our hands go numb, until it feels like maybe, just maybe, the world is something we can survive together.
No happy ending. Not yet.
But this is enough.
For now.
