Where are you?
Parking lot.
Stay there. I’m coming out.
Three minutes later, Tate appears. He spots my truck, walks over, opens the passenger door, and gets in without asking.
“Talk,” he says.
“There’s nothing to talk about.”
“Bullshit. You just bailed on a clinic you committed to. What happened?”
I stare at the steering wheel. “Noah was here. We ran into each other. We fought.”
“How bad?”
“Bad. I said things I shouldn’t have said.”
“Like what?”
“That he gave up. That he was too scared to fight for us. That he chose everyone except me.” I run a hand through my hair. “I told him to stay away from me.”
Tate’s quiet for a moment. “Did you mean it?”
“I don’t know. In the moment? Yeah. Now?” I shake my head. “I don’t know.”
“What did he say?”
“That I gave an interview that got him fired. That I handed the guy the ammunition to destroy us both. That I couldn’t keep my mouth shut.”
“Is he wrong?”
The question hits harder than it should.
“No. He’s not wrong.”
“So you’re both hurt. You both fucked up. And you both just threw it in each other’s faces instead of actually talking about it.”
“Pretty much.”
“Great. Real mature.” Tate leans back. “You know what I think?”
“I have a feeling you’re going to tell me anyway.”
“I think you’re both so busy being angry that you’re forgetting why you were together in the first place.” He looks at me. “Do you still love him?”
“That doesn’t matter?—“
“It’s the only thing that matters. Do you still love him?”
I’m quiet for a long moment.
“Yeah. I do.”
“Then you need to fix this. Not by yelling at each other in a parking lot. By actually talking. About what happened. About what you both did wrong. About whether you want to try again.”
“He ended it, Tate. He released that statement without even telling me. How am I supposed to get past that?”
