“No?”
“Maybe Porter can still be a rock for you one day. If you give it time.”
A wave of relief floods through me, joy entangled with ache.
This tiny shred of hope creates a buffer of sorts.
Still, when Olsen leans down to kiss me, I turn away.
“Let me talk to him first,” I insist. “I need to hear it from him.”
“I respect that,” he says, releasing my hand. “Come find me when you're ready.”
???
The once familiar room feels foreign to me.
Smaller somehow.
No longer ours.
Porter sits on the floor, knees bent as he leans against the bed.
He seems reluctant to pause whatever he’s listening to on his headphones.
Is there some invisible fast forward button we can push?
A short cut to the other side of this conversation?
“Got a minute?” I ask tentatively.
But he beats me to it.
“Look, I don't wanna hurt you, Mark. Really. I just… I’ve been thinking about it for a while, and it's better if we stick to being mates. Nothing more.”
Nothing more, huh?
I’ve spent months bracing for this wound.
But all I feel is numb.
I witness the soft collapse of all that was.
A slow exhale.
A release from ambiguity.
“Also... there's a girl I probably should’ve told you about.”
There it is.
The nail in the coffin.
“A waitress by any chance?”
I fail to keep the bitterness from my tongue.
Has he been fucking her and then every so often spooning me?
