“Why not?”
“Because I said so.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only one you’re getting.”
For a moment neither of us speaks. The silence between us thickens, filled with everything that has gone unsaid since the day I walked out of his life.
Then Bron sighs and pushes himself to his feet. “Come on.”
“Where are we going?”
“Somewhere quieter.”
“That sounds like a terrible idea.”
“Probably.”
I should stay where I am. The lounge is crowded and noisy and safe in the way public spaces often are when two people are carrying a history they shouldn’t revisit. Instead I stand and follow him out into the corridor, telling myself the entire time that this is simply another conversation we should have finished years ago.
The hallway outside the lounge is dimmer and cooler, the music fading behind us as we walk toward the contestanthousing wing. Bron stops outside my door, and for several seconds neither of us says anything. The quiet here is different from the silence in the lounge; it feels heavier, more intimate, like the air itself knows something important is about to happen.
“You know,” he says at last, his voice softer now, “we never actually finished that conversation.”
“What conversation?”
“The one we were having when you left.”
My fingers hover over the door panel. “That conversation ended.”
“No,” he says gently. “It paused.”
“That’s not how endings work.”
“Maybe not.”
The shift in his tone sends a faint shiver up my spine. He is closer now, though I don’t remember him stepping forward.
“You’re still angry,” he says quietly.
“Yes.”
“Good.”
“Why is that good?”
“Because anger means you still care.”
“I care about winning this competition.”
He smiles faintly. “That’s not what I meant.”
The hallway suddenly feels much smaller than it did a moment ago.
“Bron,” I whisper.
“What?”
