And the worst part—the thing that would keep me awake for days after this—was that I could see myself doing it. Could watch the mask slide back on. Could feel the words forming in my mouth that would undo everything.
"Maybe this was a mistake," I said.
I heard him go still behind me.
"Don't."
"Us. Off the water." I kept my hand on the glass. Kept my back to him. Because if I turned around and saw his face I wouldn't be able to finish. "On the water we're perfect. Off the water we just—we keep doing this."
"You're doing it right now." His voice was rough. "Exactly what I just said. Shutting the door. Right in front of me."
I knew he was right.
"Please go," I said.
Silence.
I didn't respond. Couldn't. My throat had closed around everything I wanted to say—I'm sorry too. I'm scared. Don't leave. I don't mean it. I can't stop doing this. Help me stop doing this.
The sound of him finding his shoes. The zip of his hoodie. His footsteps crossing the room.
The click of the door latch.
And then silence. The complete, total, devastating silence of a room with one person in it who'd just pushed away the only person who mattered.
I stood at the window. My hand on the glass. The quad was dark and empty below. Fog pressing against the buildings.
My shoulders were shaking. I couldn't stop them. The tears came—not the dramatic, cinematic kind. The quiet kind. The kind where your chest hurts and your eyes burn and you're too exhausted to hold it in anymore.
I've chosen you every single time. And the one person who keeps deciding it's over isn't me.
He was right.
He was right and I'd done it again. Watched myself do it. Felt the words leave my mouth—maybe this was a mistake—and known they were a lie even as I said them. Chosen the mask over the truth. Chosen fear over him.
My father's son. Right to the end.
I slid down the wall beneath the window. Sat on the floor. Knees pulled to my chest. The cold seeping through my shirt from the plaster behind me.
The room was perfectly organized around me. Desk clear. Books alphabetized. Bed made with corners that could survive inspection—except for the dent where two bodies had been lying, the pillow that still smelled like Liam.
I pressed my face against my knees and let it come. All of it. The sobs that shook my whole body. The grief that had no bottom.
Not for what I'd lost.
For what I'd thrown away.
Chapter 16: Liam
Ifound my shoes in the dark. Put them on. Pulled my hoodie off the bedpost. Zipped it.
Didn't look at him. Couldn't.
I walked to the door. Put my hand on the knob.
Turned back anyway.
Alex was at the window. Hand on the glass. Shoulders shaking. Small tremors he didn't know I could see.
