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“Because I don't get to hand you the responsibility for something I chose.”
I go quiet.
He continues.
“You didn't ask me to kill him.”
“No.”
“You didn't even ask to see me.”
That lands.
“I decided.”
“Would you do it again?”
Bitter thinks.
Actually thinks.
“Yeah.”
At least he does not insult me with a lie.
“Do you regret it?”
“No.”
I look away.
The festival moves around us with music, people, shovels, and children carrying fake bones while I have a perfectly normal conversation about murder.
“What if I hated that you did it?”
His answer comes quietly.
“Then you'd get to hate it.”
I look at him.
He does not move closer.
“You wouldn't tell me it was for my own good?”
“No.”
“You wouldn't tell me I should be grateful?”
“No.”
“You wouldn't tell me you did it because you love me?”
His jaw tightens.
“No.”
Something twists inside me at the word.
