I stare, speechless. It’s just so… him. My whole point is that he’s hadthat longto get to know me andstilldoesn’t know who I am, yet corrects me to argue he’s hadeven longerto get to know me? It’s backwards. It’s perverse. It’s fucking irritating.
It’s yet more proof I made the right decision.
“Well?”
He tilts his head. “Well, what?”
“I presume you came because you want something?”
“Isn’t it enough to want to see you?”
It would’ve been, two weeks ago. Or three weeks ago. Or four…
I wonder how long it’s been since I felt like Alex wanted to see me.
Let’s recap.
He missed Valentine’s; he was working.
We had sex around the end of January, but it wasn’t his best effort. I’m not sure that counts.
He was home at Christmas, and spent most of it on his laptop, carving the roast beef we had while looking at his phone. My piece was so thick it was like a chewy New York strip.
I can’t remember before then.
So it’s been a while.
It all begs one question: why did it take me so long to leave?
“What’s amusing you?” he asks, breaking me out of my reverie.
What’s amusing is that I appeared amused. I laugh; it still works to keep the tears at bay, and nowit has the added merit of seeing confusion in his expression.
He takes a step toward me, eyebrows lowering slightly, confusion becoming… what is that emotion on his face?
“Are you all right?” he asks.
Am I all right?
I blink. Twice.
Alex just asked me if I was all right. He’sneverasked me that before.
“Areyouall right?” I respond, now genuinely curious.
He stops. His eyes flick to the side then back to me. His back straightens. “Yes, of course I am. It was you I was concerned for.”
Concerned for…?
This is the most goddamn surreal conversation I’ve ever had with myex-fiancé.
“Alex… when have you ever shown concern?”
He takes a step back, concern becoming bewilderment. I’ve never seen him so expressive. Usually, he’s as readable as a book written in Sanskrit.
“I care,” he says, half in protest.
I can’t help my scoff. “No, you don’t.”
