“Come on, kids,” I say to the two Frenchies. They’re easily tuckered out in the heat, as am I after a day of manual labor. Walkingthem home is more like dragging them. Our pace is slow, but I’m in no rush. Giving Liem some time alone is probably best for both of us.
My phone vibrates in my pocket. Letting the little ones sniff at a tree, I reach in to answer it, seeing the unfamiliar number beneath a very familiar name.David Asten.
Why is he calling me?After months, he thinks I’ll want to hear his apology? Or worse, his explanation. I ignore the call, knowing I have nothing to say to him. It rings again. I silence it, only for it to start up right after I do.Fine!
I answer without saying a word, my breath labored with anxiety that it might truly be him on the other side.
“Bri?” His voice sends a chill over my skin, even in this heat.
It’s been months since I’ve heard his voice. I go days at a time without even thinking about him. What used to be the person I loved now feels like an amorphous embodiment of my regrets. Imagining looking at his face again—the face I used to adore and take pride in, knowing the way people fawned after him, but he still chose me to be on his arm—no longer stimulates me. All I see now is the man sitting across the table from me, telling me I wasn’t enough.
“I blocked your number for a reason, David. What the fuck do you want?”
“Can we talk?”
“That’s what we’re doing. Say your stupid shit and let me get back to my life.” He should know he will get nothing decent to come out of my mouth.
“Someone told me you were still in New York. I was wondering if we could meet up. I want a chance to explain.”
Someone. Keisha told him. Or Kellen. Whatever meddling they are doing to “help” me is accomplishing the complete opposite.
“I don’t need you to explain, I’m good. Have a great life with your growing family!”
“Bri, wait.” He stops me from hanging up. “I’m sorry.”
“For what?” My momma taught me to always ask for clarification during an apology. It’s the quickest way to tell if they are apologizing because they want to or because they think it’s expected.
“I’m sorry for ending things the way I did.” See? Trash.
“Do you mean by making a public spectacle of dumping me or for cheating?”
“Both. I didn’t want you to find out before I had the chance to tell you myself.”Aww, look. The bare minimum.“I made a huge mistake by ever sneaking around with her. She lured me in, and I was missing you, and . . . it happened. When she told me about the baby, I realized what I had been doing to you.”
It took the creation of a fetus to realize you were fucking someone else?Why does he think that makes it better?
“I’m sorry for what I did, and I wish I could take it all back.” His voice shakes, but it must be an act. “Knowing that I hurt you is killing me.”
“Good. Die.”
He groans. “Bri—”
“Let me know when the funeral is so I can dance on your grave.”
“Please don’t be this way, baby.”
His pet name grates against my ears. “Don’t call me baby when you have a literal baby on the way, fool.”
“I don’t want to be with her, and I never did. I broke your trust, but it will never happen again, I swear it. I can’t let you walk away from me before telling you I love you and I still want to be with you.”
Maybe there was a moment—a split second—where I’d hoped he would come back, crawling, and say he still wanted to be with me. Then, as quickly as the image came, so did Liem, and with him came the perspective I was missing.
The relationship I had with David, the love I had for him, cameat a cost. Making it work with him kept me from pursuing a life that didn’t fit within the security he provided. I put myself second to let him thrive, only for him to turn around and shit on my commitment to him and, worst of all, make me question my worth.
Even if I could forgive his betrayal, in what world does he think I would ever want to be the source of another woman’s misery or the cause of another kid having to grow up without a father?
I do not want a place in this life he created for himself at my expense. I will never stoop so low as to give him a second chance.
“No,” I say. That’s a full sentence, but I add emphasis just in case he doesn’t catch on. “Fuckno.”
