Page 22 of Fault Lines
“I’m sorry,” Cam said again, soft but unmoved. “I’ll see you tonight. We’ll watch a movie, just us. Here at home. Try to have a nice evening.”
“I’d rather not,” I replied, hollow.
“I’ll be home at 5:30. Think of some plans for tomorrow, too. Aquarium maybe. Something just for us.”
When I didn’t reply, he left with a long, tired sigh. For once, I was relieved. The click of the front door was a balm.
∞∞∞
Rachel’s apartment was a different country. Even empty, it felt safer. She was at work, but I let myself in with the key she’d insisted I keep, dropped my bag on the guest bed, and texted a warning.
I’m at your place. Sorry for not giving you a heads up.
Her reply was instant:You have key for a reason. I’ll see you after work!
Her kitchen was stocked better than mine, like she knew I’d come. I made a latte, letting the expensive machine foam and hiss, and toasted a bagel to slather with blueberry cream cheese. I ate standing by the counter, greedy with hunger I hadn’t even acknowledged until now.
Then: couch, television remote, volume low. I clicked through channels, restless, trying to keep my mind from drifting back to Cam and the sour note of last night. Would he notice when I was gone? Did any of it register for him, or was this, too, just another detour from what he wanted?
Why did he need me at all, if this was what he wanted? Why say he loved me, if love looked like this?
My phone buzzed. A message from Cam.
I miss you baby.
I stared at it, fingers rigid. He hadn’t sent anything like that in ages. Not just a casual I miss you in the midday lull.
Then another:I hope you aren’t sitting at home obsessing over everything. Don’t think about the details. Just know that I love you. Remember you’re my heart. Nothing in this world can change that.
What did I say to that? I closed the phone and set it aside, unwilling to answer, unwilling even to find the words.
Rachel arrived later, the slam of the front door jolting me from the sofa.
“Were you napping?” She grinned, pointing at my hair. “You must have been, your hair looks like a bird’s nest.”
It was later than I’d realized. Nearly five. I blinked, yawned, rubbed my gritty eyes.
“Sorry to just show up,” I said.
She scoffed. “Please. You know you don’t have to ask me.”
She dropped her purse and collapsed into the chair beside me, looking me over with that deliberate, careful concern she always had.
“How long are you staying? What’s happened?”
“I don’t know,” I admitted. “At least tonight. He went through with it.”
She exhaled sharply. “You knew he would. Men don’t back out of these things.”
“I was still hoping,” I whispered.
She reached across, squeezed my knee, face full of sympathy. “Nothing wrong with hope,” she said. “But it makes everything sharper when it falls apart. I’m sorry, Livi. You don’t deserve this.”
“I don’t,” I agreed. “That’s why I’m here. He just… there’s no remorse. He keeps saying he’s sorry, keeps insisting he doesn’t want to hurt me—but he does it anyway. I begged him not to do this again, to make it the last time. But he’s nowhere near stopping.”
“Because he knows you’ll let him.”
Her eyes fixed mine. I felt the sting of it, the truth.
