"I remember." I stand, leaving my untouched coffee on the table. "I remember pulling away and saying no. I remember waking up fully clothed in your chair. Whatever you're telling yourself about that night—whatever bullshit you've made up to justify this obsession—it's a lie, Mila. And deep down, you know it."
Her face contorts.
“Don’t leave me!” Her voice is high, frantic. "Not when I'm—we'reconnectednow, Devon."
"We'renotconnected. We wereneverconnected. You were someone I knew in high school, someone I made a terrible mistake with as a stupid adult, and now you're someone I need to stay away from for the rest of my life."
I turn toward the door.
"If you walk out that door—" Her voice cuts through the café, loud enough that everyone is listening now. "If you leave me, I'll tell everyone what really happened. I'll tell Jade every detail. I'll?—"
I stop and twist around.
"Tell her what? The truth?" I laugh. "Jade already knows everything. The kiss. The hotel room. All of it. She knows, and she still loves me. She knows I'm telling the truth."
Mila's face crumples. Tears stream down her cheeks, but there's no sympathy left in me. Not after everything she's put Jade through.
“We could have had everything,” she whispers. “Yet you choose that fat?—”
“Don’t even finish that fucking sentence. She’s a million times the woman you’ll ever be. You wanted something I couldn't give you, and when you didn't get it, you tried to destroy my marriage." I step closer,lowering my voice so only she can hear. "Stay away from my wife. Stay away from me. If I see you again—anywhere—I'm calling the police."
I'm almost at the door when her voice stops me one final time.
"Then what's the point?" The words are barely audible. "If I can't have you—if you don’t want me anymore—what's the point of any of it?"
If I don’t want her anymore? I never wanted her!
Mila is slumped in her chair, her hands pressed against her stomach, her eyes vacant.
"I don't know what to do anymore," she continues, her voice distant. "Without you, I don't know if I can exist.”
Fucking hell—"Mila?—"
"Don't." She looks up at me. "Don't pretend you care now. You made your choice."
"If you're having thoughts of hurting yourself, you need to call someone," I tell her. "A therapist. A crisis line. Someone who can actually help you."
"The only person who could help me is you."
"That's not true. And it's not healthy. Talk to someone. But it can't be me, Mila. Not anymore."
Then I walk out of the coffee shop onto the street, my body shaking violently.
She's unwell. Genuinely unwell. And I don't know if a restraining order can protect us from someone who has nothing left to lose.
I glance back at the coffee shop, seeing Mila standing there watching me, her fists clenched, her expression blank.
Jesus.
I call Officer Gray from my car. I tell her everything, and she groans when I tell her I met up with her.
“I know, but please, just listen.”
“There’s a restraining order in place! You can’t just go meeting up with her whenever you feel like it!” Officer Gray is furious.
“I know. But please?—”
“Go on then, tell me what happened,” Officer Gray grunts reluctantly.
