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Reporters were murmuring in the hallway, hoping he didn’t read any of their old articles about him years ago, and suddenly they were shouting questions.
“Mr. Henderson! Mr. Henderson!” They hounded him the second he stepped outside of the courtroom. “Mr. Henderson!”
He stopped and looked at them. “My name is Mr. Hamilton.”
“How do you feel about potentially sending your former partner and best friend away to prison?”
“He’s sending himself to prison,” he answered.
“Do you have any intentions of reconnecting with him while he’s behind bars?”
He ignored that question with a blank stare.
“Your name was cleared years ago and yet you still left New York,” someone else asked. “Now that everything is in the open for good, any chance that you’ll come back and re-open your firm?”
“I’m about to spend my last hour in this city on the way to the airport,” he said, pulling shades over his eyes.
The throng of reporters followed him out of the courtroom, and he slipped inside the car without a second glance.
Sighing, I pulled out my phone and re-read the messages he’d sent me this morning, somewhat regretting that I didn’t respond.
Subject: NYC.
I would like to see you one last time before I leave. Can I pick you up for breakfast?
PS—I really was going to tell you everything that night…
—Andrew
Subject: Your Pussy.
This message is actually not about your pu**y. (Although, since I’m on the subject, it is number one on my list of favorite things.)
Come to breakfast with me. I’m outside your door.
—Andrew
As I was rereading that email, a new one popped onto my screen:
Subject: Goodbye.
—Andrew
I knew my lack of response was immature, that it was my fault that I didn’t get to see him before he left, but I felt as if he could’ve made more of an effort. And I still felt that he was wrong for not being open with me when he should have.
Leaving the courthouse, I headed home and thought about all the half-truths and lies that had swirled our relationship. Alyssa. His wife. My real name. His real name.
Everything we had was built on lies…
Letting tears roll down my face, I opened the door to my house, prepared to shower until I couldn’t cry anymore, but Andrew was standing in my living room.
“Hello, Aubrey.” He glared at me.
“Breaking and entering is a crime.” I crossed my arms. “Shouldn’t you know that?”
He said nothing, just continued glaring at me—looking me up and down.
