Before the arguments curdled.
Before the jealousy sharpened.
Before the first time he grabbed my arm hard enough that I had to buy concealer two shades darker.
I flipped the phone face-down and pressed my palms to my eyes.
Don't do it. Don't respond. Emma would murder you.
But Emma wasn't here.
Emma was at a hospital, sitting beside a man she hardly knew because that's who she was—loyal.
And me?
I was alone in a crappy apartment, drinking cheap wine, missing someone who hurt me.
Pathetic.
The thought landed like a stone—my own voice this time, not his.
I picked up the phone again.
Candace: I don't know what to say.
Three dots appeared immediately. He'd been waiting.
Garrett: You don't have to say anything. Just let me come over. Let me show you I'm changing.
Garrett: One hour. That's all I'm asking.
Garrett: If you still want nothing to do with me after that, I'll go. I mean it.
I'd heard "I promise" so many times the words barely had shape anymore.
But he'd never offered therapy before.
He'd never admitted he was wrong.
He'd never sounded afraid of losing me.
Maybe—just maybe—this time he meant it.
Before I could stop myself, I typed:
Candace: One hour.
He showed up forty-five minutes later with two brown paper bags from an Indian place we used to love—warm even through the paper—and a bottle of wine that definitely cost more than nine dollars.
"Hey," he said quietly, looking at me like I was something precious.
"Hey." My voice came out small.
I stepped aside, and the second the door shut, my stomach dipped—not dread exactly, but close enough to borrow its shape.
He was here.
In my space.
