Parents are divorced.’
That’s it.That’s all I give him.No mention of the psychological debris field left in their wake.
Tom doesn’t push.He nods, politely recognising I’ve fulfilled the minimum honesty requirement for small talk.
When we reach my building, we stop.He smiles, hands in his pockets, body angled slightly away from mine as if he’s about to say goodnight.
For some reason, that stuns me.
I was expecting – what?A lean-in kiss?A hopeful ‘Can I come up?’A suggestion of continuing this night in the realm of bad decisions and good lighting?
Instead, he stands there, a grown adult with healthy boundaries.
It’s jarring.
‘Do you want to come up?’I ask, because apparently I’m incapable of letting go when I should, and even worse at holding on when it matters.
His eyebrows lift slightly.‘Are you sure?’
I nod.‘Yeah.’
Because this is what you do, isn’t it?
You invite them in.You offer up your bed like it might soften the distance.You fill the quiet with physical closeness and hope it fools your body into forgetting that your heart hasn’t caught up.
Even if it feels closer to a routine than anything real.
Even if what you’re really doing is trying to overwrite a memory that refuses to leave.
You choose the guy who texts back.The one who makes dinner reservations and doesn’t tell you that you’re difficult.You pick stability.Sanity.Safety.
Even when it feels like eating toast when you’re starving for cake.
We kiss in the elevator.It’s pleasant.Textbook.No teeth.No tongue like a blender.
I lead him to the bedroom, and he doesn’t rush.Doesn’t grab.Doesn’t mistake enthusiasm for entitlement.
His hands are soft.His mouth warm.
I close my eyes.
It’s not bad.
But halfway through, I find myself thinking of Luke.
Of callused hands and whispered swearing and the way he said my name as if it was a sentence he didn’t want to finish.Of how he looked at me like I wasn’t a body in a bed but a future he couldn’t name yet.
When it’s over, we’re tangled in sheets that don’t feel right.I turn away under the guise of adjusting the blanket, pressing my cheek into the pillow to smother the memory of a man who said that if I left, I shouldn’t come back … no matter how much I might want to.
Tom wraps an arm around me.Gentle.Easy.Thoughtful.
I want to scream.
Instead, I whisper, ‘Do you want water?’
Apparently, hospitality is my love language now.
I pad to the kitchen naked, pour two glasses, and lean against the counter while my body remembers things it shouldn’t.Things that didn’t happen here.That don’t belong here.
