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I repeat my admittedly dramatic statement, and Sunday repeats hers. “What?Why would you do that?”
“Really, Sunday?” An incredulous noise escapes me; after everything, she still doesn’t get it. “Why would I do that?Why do I do anything these days?”
“Don’t.” She stands, striding across the room and back again, scowling as she stops right in front of me, only an arm’s length away so she doesn’t have to shout to get her point across. “You can’t blame this on me. I didn’t ask you to, I never—”
“I didn’t quit because of you, Sunday. I mean, I did, but it’s not as simple as that. I quit because every day, I woke up and something was wrong. Somethingfeltwrong. I hurt everywhere. My shoulder, my muscles, my fucking bones. My—” I swallow, the word getting caught in my throat. Grabbing her hand, I guide it to my chest and hope the erratic thump beneath my skin says it for me. “I quit because I missed two people I’ve known for less than a year more than I’ve missed anyone in my entire life. I quit because two months ago, I made the wrong decision and now, I’m finally making it right.
“I never should’ve left. I thought I was doing the right thing, making your life easier, somehow. You said you never asked for any of this, and you were right, youareright, and I took it personally. I got mad and I lashed out and—”
I have to pause. Steady myself with a deep breath. Figure out how to word the next part without it sounding like I’m blaming her. “I fired Ryan, I punched Sal, and I got drunk. I wanted to give you time, to give myself time to come up with an apology good enough for you, but I took too long. By the time I made it back to the room, you were gone.”
Watching realization—and in its wake, devastation—crest and fall is heartbreaking. “But…” She stammers, searching for words that don’t come easily. “You left.”
“After you did.”
“But you didn’t even call. August did, he’s the one who reached out. You…” As close to a growl as I’ve ever heard escapes Sunday as she advances on me, shoving me with the meager strength she possesses. “Youleft,” she repeats. “You did. You took that contract, you didn’t come home, you didn’t even try.”
“I know, baby.” I have no excuse other than a wounded pride and a head stuck in the past. “I’m so sorry.”
Sunday shoves me again, evading me when I try to grab her offending hands. “And now, what? You just come back and act like nothing happened? After you crushed my kid, after you crushed me? How can you do that?”
“Because I fucking love you, Sunday.” This time, when I reach for her, I succeed, catching her fingers between mine and grasping them tightly. “How do you not get that by now?”
My words do not get the heartwarming reaction I hoped for; if anything, they spike Sunday’s ire.
She snatches her hand away, expression thunderous. “Maybe because you never told me.”
“I never said the words but I told you.”
Frustration leaving her on a breathy huff, she steps back, raking her hands through her hair. “That is such a fucking cop out. That’s notfair.”
“We lived together, Sunday. Slept together.Parentedtogether.”
“It was fake.”
“How was any of thatfake?”
“You said it was.”
“Because I was pissed, Sunday. I lashed out, just like you did.”
“Like you left just like I did? This is all my fault?”
“That’s not what I’m saying.”
“No.” She laughs—she fuckinglaughs, a bitter, dubious noise. “You’re sayingyou love me.”
“You don’t believe me?” How fucking ridiculous, as ridiculous as us having this conversation via whispered shouts for fear of waking the baby. I scoff as I get to my feet and thunder—quietly, of course—to the duffel discarded by the door. Rifling through it to find my journal, myrealjournal, I toss it at Sunday. “Go on. Read it.”
For a second, I almost think she won’t just because I told her to, but her curiosity wins out. Wincing, almost, like she fears the contents, Sunday flips open the battered leather-bound journal I’ve been carrying around for the better part of a year and starts at the beginning—our beginning.
I watch her read. I watch her recount the months I spend agonizing over my feelings for her, pouring everything I couldn’t say onto the page. I watch her breath catch and her eyes water and pure disbelief twists her features, disbelief that fades the more she reads.
I watch her finally fucking get it.
“Sometimes, I think I fell in love with you that night. The first night. Because it felt like you were the only person in the world who didn’t look at me like I was broken. Other times, I’m sure it was when I found out you were pregnant. You know what I thought?” She does—she just read it—but I tell her anyway. “I thought,I am never letting this girl get hurt again. She’s mine.”
Her bottom lip quivers, pulling at my heartstrings, but I persevere. “I know I was in love with you when John and your parents visited. I was out of my mind in love with you and I wanted to kill John for talking to you the way he did, for treating you the way he has for so long, but I couldn’t so I did the next best thing. I got rid of him. I did it the wrong way and I will regret that for the rest of my life almost as much as I won’t because I lost you, but so did he.”
