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‘It’s fine,’ I say quickly. I can’t hear this story. ‘You don’t have to explain. We weren’t together. We were never together.’
He’s silent.
‘So, to clarify, your definition of waiting is doing whatever you want with whoever you want, like you always have—just in another city.’
He makes an exasperated noise. ‘You went and got baptised, but I’m expected to live like a fucking priest?’
He’s right, but it still stings. ‘I have to go. I’ll speak to you later.’
He exhales loudly. ‘When later?’
I hang up the phone and stand there processing. Only when I’m certain I have a handle on my emotions do I go to my bedroom and close the door.
