Page 64 of The Sun and Her Star

“I love you,” I manage.

His eyes squeeze shut as if looking at me is painful.

I forge ahead. “I’m leaving because I can’t stand that you don’t love me back.”

He scoffs, dismissing my words and me with that single, casual breath.

“If that’s what you really think, thenyoudon’t knowme,” he says without any emotion.

I nod and fight like hell to keep my lip from trembling.

Not one more tear.

I hold my chin up and avoid his eyes as I approach.

“The universe is calling,” I say with a bravado I don’t feel as I step through the door he’s holding open.

Graham laughs. It’s bitter and ugly and strains the already unraveling thread on my resolve to not shed one more tear for him. Not ever again. He didn’t deserve them.

“Sure, yeah. Go answer her call. Maybe one day, I can too,” he says bitterly.

“One day, like the one day you talked about in London? You never learn your lessons, Graham. But, Ido. I’ll never believe a word you say again,” I say and let my disdain color every word.

The last thing I see before he shuts the door in my face is Graham’s thunderous gaze. I stand and stare at it for a minute before I find the strength to walk away.

Tante Isabel always said, “People who love each other are never without each other. Even if they’re not in the same place physically.” She says that to me whenever I cry for the people I’ve lost. And it usually comforts me. Even though it’s not true.

My sister is gone.

My father is gone.

My mother … might as well be.

Now, Graham is gone, too.

I lick my lips and taste him there. I can’t stop the tears that start from a well of disappointment deep inside of me and spill down my face. But as I walk away from the love of my life, I promise myself these will be the last tears I shed for him. I’m done.

Year 1

Graham

“Hey, Apollo. It’s me ... I’m just getting off work. It’s … my birthday. So, happy birthday to me. I miss you.” I end the call and push my phone across the counter in disgust.

“You’re so fucking pathetic, G,” Dave mutters as he walks into my kitchen. He yawns, scratches the scruff on his chin, and opens the fridge.

“Yeah, I know. You tell me every single day.”

“Well, someone’s gotta keep you humble.”

“Believe me, life’s doing a pretty good job at that right now.” I groan and hop up onto one of the bar stools in front of my bar-height counter and pick up my phone again. It’s a compulsion. I check my email, my texts, and then double check my voice mails to see if maybe she called in the 3.7 seconds I wasn’t watching my phone.

Dave’s right, I’m fucking pathetic.

I called her the day after our argument. I wanted to apologize. I had woken up in a panic when I remembered the things I said to her. I hadn’t meant any of them. I left a voice mail telling her I was sorry. She never called back.

After two weeks of silence, I started conjuring wild fantasies of her being sick in some hospital, unable to come to the phone.

Because surely, nothing short of being near death could keep my best friend from returning my calls.

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