Page 67 of Marlowe Banks, Redesigned
“I told you now. Instead of taking it in and considering it, your first response is to tell me I’m wrong. To completely discredit me.Thisis what I’ve been trying to explain.”
His brows pinched together, two black brushstrokes, meeting in the middle.
“So you’re allowed to react, but I’m not?”
“I didn’t say that. You’re not listening.”
“I can’t sit here silently when what you’ve laid out with such painstaking detail is total bullshit. You’ve twisted everything and turned me into some kind of monster.” He pivoted toward her, grinding his chair legs across the linoleum. While he struggled to level the chair, she fell into her old pattern of believing his wordsover her own. Doubts bubbled up. Had she called him a monster? Did she twist something? Should she retract, retreat, amend, apologize, smooth things over? As her mind spun, Kelvin’s eyes flashed like blue flame, as if he sensed her wavering and now he could pounce. “You do hear yourself, right? What kind of girl complains about getting flowers? Or expects a guy to praise every little thing she does? Or flips out because he doesn’t lock himself to her side at a goddamned party instead of assuming she’ll talk to other people? It’s not just flawed logic. It’s flat-out crazy.”
Marlowe swept his mug off the table and plunked it in the sink, buying herself a moment to level her voice before speaking. Kelvin wasn’t here to listen and understand. He’d never understand. Some part of her knew that when she’d fled New York, knew that if she didn’t run far and fast, she’d be stuck in this cycle over and over and over again. Raise a concern. Get yelled at. Question her needs. Cave and apologize. Rinse and repeat. She didn’t run because she panicked. She ran because it was the only way to get out.
“I need you to leave,” she said.
“What, now?”
“Yes.”
“Because you don’t want to hear the truth?”
“Because my truth is different from yours. And it always will be.”
“That doesn’t even make sense.”
“It doesn’t have to.” She walked out of the kitchen and into the foyer.
He gaped at her from his chair. “Where am I supposed to go?”
“You’re a smart guy. You’ll figure it out.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“Actually, I can. All these months I’ve blamed myself for not being clear, for not articulating the perfect words that would’ve madeyou understand what wasn’t working so we could keep trying, but there are no perfect words. And while I’ve spent years apologizing to you, you never once took responsibility for your own failings.Iwas always the one who had to change, who had to do better. It’s not fair. And it’s not true.” She picked up his backpack. One of the pockets flapped open. She wrenched the zipper shut, pinching her skin in the process. The little stab of pain felt sharp and real and gloriously uncomplicated. “No one’s a monster. Some things simply don’t work, no matter how hard anyone tries to force them to continue. We’re not right for each other. End of story. Now, you need to go.” She opened the front door and stepped back.
He stood up slowly, his face a confusing blend of anguish and fury.
“Don’t do this,” he said. “Don’t throw me away again.”
“I’m not. I’m asking you to leave.”
“And you don’t even care how I feel about that?”
“How you feel about that is no longer my responsibility.” The words came out crisp and clear but a storm roiled in her gut. She had to lock her jaw so she wouldn’t withdraw her statement and tell him how much she did care, opening the opportunity for him to hold her hostage with guilt. Cherry had nailed it last month. Kelvin was an emotional predator. With his almost Machiavellian ability to target Marlowe’s lack of confidence, and to twist that deficiency into a power play, she’d been doomed to become a subservient shell of her once-outspoken self. Until she fled.
While she remained rooted to her position, he shook his head, looking at her as though he didn’t even recognize her.
“When did you get so cold?” he asked.
“I’m not cold. I feel things as deeply now as I always did, but I’ve beat myself up about you for six months. I don’t owe you morehurt or shame or whatever you came here to collect.” She held out his bag. “Now go. Please.”
He stared at her for what felt like forever but was probably less than a minute. Then he stepped forward and took his backpack, slinging it over a shoulder.
“If I leave now, I’m never coming back.”
She nodded. “I know.”
“That’s all you have to say to me? After everything we’ve shared?”
She considered the question, replaying relationship memories on fast-forward: kisses, laughter, tears, fury, aloneness. She was about to nod and say goodbye when she realized she did want to say something else, something shefinallyunderstood, bone deep.
