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“You’re like a kid,” I mutter.
“And you’re good with kids...” she says, a sad smile rolling to her lips.
“Not when they are grown-up women.”
She tips her chin down, hiding her eyes. I sit on the edge of the tub and gently tilt her face back up.
Her eyes glisten with tears.
“What was that?” I ask.
She shrugs and briefly looks away.
I wait.
“I can’t change the past,” she says, her gaze slanting down.
“Are you telling me this?”
She raises her eyes.
“I told you it wasn’t about the past. Of all people, do you think I’m the one to pass judgment?”
Her shoulders tilt up.
“I don’t know...” she mutters.
“You know it’s not about that. I never said it was a good story. It clearly wasn’t. I just don’t want you to use it to play me. It does me more harm than good. I can’t stand lies or twisted truths. Not when it comes from people I care for. All right?”
She blinks a couple of times, disconnected from my words, her eyes dull and empty.
I slide my hand to her shoulder and gently brush her skin.
“I’ll get you something warm.”
Half an hour later, wrapped in a soft robe, fingers curled around a cup of tea, she lies on the bed and observes me from above the rim.
Sunk into a chair next to the fireplace, laptop propped on my lap, I pretend I don’t register her stare.
A few moments of silence slip by.
“You’re gonna leave me, aren’t you?”
Her voice rings calm, even, and resolute, as if she’s given some thought to that idea.
I cut my eyes at her.
“What makes you say that?” I ask, trying to remain composed while my pulse races.
“Because I learned you. You’re always one foot in and one foot out. Always ready to pick up and leave.”
“It doesn’t have anything to do with you.”
She places the cup on the nightstand.
“I think it does. That’s why you overreacted when you heard the story.”
“No, I didn’t.”
