“They always do.” He doesn’t look up. “You don’t have to—”
“I know.”
I move closer, close enough to smell sugar and heat and something faintly citrus on him. Not close enough to make him retreat. I fold my arms, watching him massacre fruit.
“Being single isn’t a disease,” I offer.
“Tell that to coupled people.”
“Fair point.” I steal a strawberry slice from the cutting board, mostly to have something to do with my hands. “Though March is kind of a long—”
“Don’t.”
The knife pauses mid-air.
“Right. Shutting up.”
More quiet slicing, aka fruit carnage. His jaw’s doing that clenched thing again.
Then, without looking up, he says, “Her name was Rebecca.”
I blink. “Okay…”
He sets the knife down, fingers braced on the counter. “She was an investment banker. We met at a conference. Dated for three months.”
I wait. “What happened?”
“She wanted more.”
“And you didn’t?”
He finally looks at me. His eyes are tired—not in the physical sense, but in the way someone looks when they’ve stopped expecting to be understood.
“I wanted to want it,” he says quietly. “Does that count?”
Something twists in my chest. The honest kind of ache.
“Yeah,” I whisper. “It counts.”
For a second, the air between us feels heavy, fragile. My chest squeezes. “Yeah. It counts.”
“Do you know what it’s like?” His voice drops. “To go through the motions? To sit across from someone beautiful and accomplished and feel… nothing?”
“Actually? Yeah.”
He blinks.
“His name was Mitchell,” I say. “He was a photographer. Sweet. Talented. Looked at me like I hung the moon.”
“And?”
“And I felt like I was suffocating.” I grab another strawberry. “Kept waiting to feel what everyone said I should feel. Never did.”
“How long?”
“Eight months.”
“Damn. I barely lasted three.”
