“The bet was real,” I say, “but it wasn’t—” I shake my head, try again. “It was real, but it was a stupid thing. We made the bet before I ever even knew who you were. I never meant?—”
He holds up a hand. Just that. The gesture is so calm it freezes me in place.
He says, “You should have told me.”
I try to meet his gaze, but he’s staring at the carpet, at the spill of light on the floor. His face is rigid, all bone and shadow.
He goes on, “You should have told me, or you should have walked away from it. Either would have been fine. But you didn’t. You kept it going.” He leans forward, elbows on knees. “You took pictures, Andie. Remember the fundraiser, early on? You took a picture of my dick, with my face showing. Was that for the bet?”
I nod, too ashamed to lie.
He gives a single, humorless laugh, not even a breath. “Of course. Because you showed it to the other girls.”
I want to explain it, to tell him I only ever wanted to win for the sake of not losing, that I would give everything just for a chance to start over. I want to say that I love him, that every time I pressed my body to his it wasn’t for a prize, it was because I needed him like air, like water, like sustenance. But all of itsounds so weak, so childish, that the words die before I can even try.
I hear myself say, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean?—”
He cuts me off, voice so controlled it’s almost inhuman. “You didn’t mean to win? Or you didn’t mean for me to find out?” He turns, now, and his eyes pin me to the spot. “Did you think you’d just keep it a secret, and everything would be fine? That you could fuck your way through a thousand-dollar dare and I’d be none the wiser?”
I flinch. It’s not the word “fuck” that hurts. It’s the truth under it.
He stands, slow and deliberate, and for a second I think he’s going to throw the glass. But he doesn’t. He just stands there, arms crossed over his chest, looking down at me with a rigidity I’ve never seen before.
He says, “You’re a kid. Maybe that’s my fault. I thought you were more than that, but maybe you’re not.” His jaw tightens, a muscle jumping. “Give me the key. I want it back. You have no right to use it anymore.”
The key. I’d forgotten it was still in my pocket. I take it out, the metal slick and greasy in my fingers. I walk to the kitchen counter, set it down. The sound is so loud it makes me jump.
He nods, as if that’s all he was waiting for.
My eyes are hot, burning, but I can’t let myself cry. Not yet.
He walks back to his chair, sits, and picks up the glass. He doesn’t look at me again.
“Go home, Andie,” he says. The words are so quiet I almost miss them. “You don’t belong here.”
I try to speak, try to argue, but nothing works. Instead, I just stand there, tears slipping down my face, making cold streaks on my cheeks.
I press my hand to my mouth, holding the sound in. I want to say something that will fix it, but there isn’t anything.
So I turn to go.
At the door, I stop, turn back. My voice is a whisper, shredded and helpless.
“I love you.”
He doesn’t move. He doesn’t speak. He just stares out at the city, and I realize he’s already left, in every way that matters.
I let the door close behind me. The sound of it, soft and final, echoes down the empty hall.
I ridethe elevator to the ground floor, face wet and raw, and I don’t look in the mirror. I don’t look anywhere. The city on the other side of the glass doors is cold and bright, and when I step outside, the wind cuts through me like a judgment.
I walk for a long time before I even realize where I’m going, the rhythm of my boots on the sidewalk the only thing that keeps me upright.
I left the key on the counter. I left my heart. I left everything.
But the words he said to me—the ones he didn’t even say—are a weight I can never put down.
All I can think is:it’s over.
