Page 73 of The Encore’s Crown

“That’s all it was?"

“I don’t want you turning it into something else.”

A laugh breaks out of me.

“Are you serious?”

“I’m trying to be honest with you.”

“No, you’re trying to rewrite the last three days because I’m not standing in front of you anymore. You said we’d figure it out.”

My voice cracks on the last word, and I hate him for hearing it. I hate myself more. He goes quiet and I can feel every conversation we had crowding into the silence. How warm his eyes were when he told me this deserved time, privacy, a chance to exist outside hotel rooms and tour schedules.

“You said you didn’t want our first time to happen like that,” I whisper. “You acted like this had a future.”

“Yeah. And then I thought about it.”

I stare across my bedroom at the clothes I left on the chair before the trip. A sweatshirt. Jeans. A life that belonged to a version of me who hadn’t learned what his hands felt like.

“And?”

“And I think it’s better if we don’t start something.”

I can’t breathe. Then I laugh again, louder this time.

“Wow. No, that’s actually incredible. I didn't think it was possible to hurt me more, but congratulations.”

“I’m not trying to hurt you.”

“Then you’re fucking terrible at it.”

He says nothing. I pace toward the window, then turn back because there's nowhere to go. My bedroom feels too small for the rage pushing into my chest.

“You think we haven't started anything yet?”

“That’s not what I said.”

“It’s exactly what you said. You think you get to decide now, from a safe distance, that it would be better to pretend this hasn't already started?”

“I’m saying it can't become more.”

Silence. My eyes burn as I press my knuckles against my mouth, fighting the humiliating sound trying to get out. When he speaks again, his voice has softened. That makes it so much worse.

“I’m sorry.”

“Fuck you.” I wipe angrily beneath one eye. “You don’t get to hold me all night and talk about figuring shit out and not holding back, then call it fun like we made out behind a club once.”

“I shouldn’t have said those things.”

“Did you mean any of it?” He doesn’t answer. I stop pacing. "Did you?" Another pause. I want to scream but I hold it in.

Then, quietly, “Maybe I wanted to mean it.”

The pain of that is so intense it almost makes me double over.

“What changed?” I stare at the ceiling to stop the tears. Its little peaks and valleys look like snowy hills, and I try to imagine myself disappearing between them.

He draws in a breath. “Nothing changed,” he says. “I just thought about it clearly. I finally got some blood back to my brain since you left.”