Page 94 of Malaise
His eyes darken, his Adam’s apple slowly bobbing as he regards me with a long sigh.
My heart races: have I said the right thing? Am I enough? Does what he see give him pause enough to try and get off this charge? Does he want that future with me? He swallows hard, his fingers flexing over his ribs.
I take the opportunity of his silence to say what I feel he needs to hear before our time is up. I metaphorically open my chest and lay my heart bare on the table for him so he can see that this is the raw truth of it.
“I never knew what I was missing until I had you.” His brow furrows, and I swallow away the last of my inhibitions. “After that night at the bonfire, it took me a while to realise what it was that made me crave your company. Aside from the obvious spark between us, it was because experiencing the best of you brought out the best in me: your selflessness, your compassion, your confidence, and your determination. You gave me reason to fight back. I said to you once that I wished I knew why you had faith in me, and you said you wished I could see why. Well, now I’m going to say the same thing back to you—I wish you could seewhy I have faith in you, too. You’re not a bad person, Carver,” I say, shaking my head. “You’re not the criminal you like to think you are. You’re just a boy who grew up without enough love to allow him to believe in himself.” My vision blurs, and I frown in an effort to get the last words out. “Let me give you that love. Let me return the favour and show you how great you can be.”
He runs a hand over his face, huffing out a heavy breath. His eyes are bloodshot, and I just know I’ve got through. “Babe, I wish it was that easy. But our town, the community, it’s a fucking rip tide. You’ve been fighting to get away from it, and I’ve been pulling you under over and over until you’re too tired to fight anymore. You might not be able to see it, but I know it. I can’t keep consciously doing that to you.”
“This isn’t why I came here today,” I say, fighting the tears of frustration, of anger and injustice. “I didn’t come here for you to push me away, for you to quit on me.”
“I know, baby. I know,” he murmurs. “But it had to be said, and what better time than when at least one of us can’t escape the conversation.”
“You said you loved me when they arrested you.” I play my final card.
“I do.”
“Then fucking prove it.” I push to my feet, the plastic chair complaining as it moves across the linoleum. “If I mean so much to you, come home.”
He can’t touch me—I won’t let him get a goodbye hug and lay this to rest. I leave before he has the chance to even reach out. If I gave him that connection, I know what would have happened: it would have killed his need to get out so he can have our intimacy again, closure. I need him to want us bad enough to fight this. I need him to crave it.
So I leave. I walk away, tiny shards of heart falling in my wake, and hope like fuck I’m doing the right thing.
The deep baritone of his voice calling my name haunts me down the corridor as I stride toward the reception desk.
He can’t quit on us.
He can’t quit on me.
I won’t let him walk away thinking it’s what’s best for me.
Because it’s not.
He is.