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The second half of the play was even more stressful than the first, because I believe him. His explanation. His apology. All of it.
And now I need to decide what to do next. Should I just accept his apology and move forward. Or should I just end this here? I don’t want to stop seeing Beckett, but that’s kinda the whole point. If I felt this bad after only a couple weeks, how much worse would it feel if I were with him longer?
As the clapping dies down, I lead us out of the row of seats. Following the crowd out.
I know Beckett’s right behind me because his palm presses into my lower back, infusing heat straight into my blood. And I can’t think with him this close. And I certainly can’t be trusted to make a good decision if I walk into that dark parking lot with him at my side.
I need distance from his overwhelming presence, so I have room to think.
“I have to pee!” I immediately cringe at my exclamation, but it works and Beckett pauses. “Stay here.”
Not waiting for his confirmation, I step away, slicing a path through the crowd toward the restrooms.
Then, without looking back, I let the flow of people guide my steps until I’m walking out the main doors in a sea of bodies.
