Her laugh came out small and wounded. “You didn’t even hesitate.”
“I won’t insult you by pretending it isn’t.”
“Lucky me.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Stop saying that for a minute.”
I stopped.
She crossed her arms, then uncrossed them immediately, as if even that felt too defensive. “Do you love her?”
There it was. The question I had not let myself answer in full, because answering meant responsibility. It meant admitting that what I felt for Jace had moved past need, past hunger, past the structure that had first made sense of us.
It had become the thing I thought about when a room went quiet.
It had become the person I fed before dawn.
It had become the future pressing against my ribs even when I was trying to do the right thing far too late.
“I don’t know how to say it cleanly,” I said.
“That sounds like yes.”
I looked at her. “Yes.”
She absorbed it without blinking.
Then she nodded, slow and devastated. “Okay.”
Nothing about it was okay.
She moved to the living room and sat on the edge of the couch. Not back against the cushions. Not comfortable. A visitor in her own house. Tiny followed and put the duck on her lap with solemn optimism.
Olivia looked down at him, and a tear finally slipped free.
“Oh, buddy,” she whispered. “You have terrible timing.”
Tiny rested his head on her knee.
I stayed by the kitchen because the distance felt deserved.
After a minute, she said, “Are you leaving?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“I can go tonight if you want.”
Her head came up fast. “Don’t make me decide that right now.”
“All right.”
“I mean it. Don’t hand me the logistics like a consolation prize.”
“I won’t.”
