“I…” I put a hand to my throat as though to force out the confession. “I slept with Tristan. More than once. I mean, I guess I love him. Loved him. We had a threesome with Nia too. But it’s over.”
It sounded so much worse than in my practiced scenarios.
“Well.” Jay paused. “At least you told me.”
“I’m sorry, what?”
“Now I know why Tristan has been acting weird since you two met.”
I held my breath. This couldn’t be it. Actions had consequences. Except for sexual assault or destroying democracy—you could get away with that. But being a deceitful woman? Where was the guillotine falling on my neck? I looked up and saw only my dusty ceiling fan, creaking in agony.
“I’m not saying I’m not hurt. But I guess a part of me knew. I’m not as flighty as you think I am.” He said this last part almost angrily, but then calmed. “We’ve been through so much. I think I can move past it as long as it’s over. Just the two of us from now on. I mean, you’re not going to see them again.” He paused, searching. “Right?”
I didn’t know what to say. Seeing Tristan or Nia wasn’t even on the table, yet I couldn’t fathom passing up the chance. I was still holding on to that afternoon, the three of us in bed, the sun casting patterns on our skin, the version where I got to stay.
I brushed my finger over the fallen “FORM” Post-it on my nightstand. “What about Tristan? Are you done with him?”
Jay laughed impatiently. “Is that unreasonable?”
“Why are you forgiving me?”
“I love you.”
Jay had loved Tristan long before he loved me. But I didn’t say this. I could end this fevered nightmare by saying yes, I will never see Nia or Tristan again. I will never love anyone else again.
Say yes, Cat. Open your mouth. One word. The easiest word in the English language, a word that feels good even when you half mean it. Say it.
“No.”
There was a long pause. “No?”
My voice shook like something being rattled around in a box. “I love you so much. I never thought we wouldn’t be together. The idea has always been too painful. But I’m not what you want me to be. I’m not. I’m not like you. I can’t…”
“Okay,” he said.
“Okay?”
“Love is sometimes letting go, I think.” I could hear him crying. This made me cry too.
“I don’t know. Maybe.”
He paused. “I hope you find a way to be happy.”
This sent me over the edge. I cried, out of breath. We hung up. I stared at my phone, this silly block of metal.
Outside my window, my parents were talking, probably about me, the problem of me. Then, after a while, my mom got into her car and drove into the dark, my dad watching her taillights.
Chapter 75
The ache of the week’s events began as a hollow one in that falsely hopeful post-sleep haze. It leadened as I remembered everything: fascism, genocide, breakup, assault, breakup, jail (release!), pissed parents, another breakup. I had no texts from anyone, no emails from Anwar. Milan never responded to my message. I didn’t try again. How could I say to her what could not be said? But, according to a pale pink email at the top of my inbox, the skin care brand wanted to hire me—could I come in tomorrow for training? I was unemployed, had ruined all my relationships, and wanted to vomit at the thought of working on my novels, so, sure, I thought I could make it.
When I scrolled my inbox, there was another email from an address I didn’t recognize, sent days ago.
from: [email protected]
Dear Catherine, I’m sorry I’ve been MIA. By now you’ve probably heard the news of my untimely departure from the university. I had tried to keep it hush-hush but things escalated rather quickly. Anyhow, I wanted to reach out toyoudirectly because it was such an honor to be your teacher in the short time that I was. You are a great talent, but more important than that, you are asking all the right questions. Your future is bright even if the world feels dim. Please keep in touch. My cell is below.
