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“Friendship?”
“Are you going to repeat everything I say?”
“No.”
He’s silent for a few breaths.
“I’m trying to figure out why you care if I’m companioned or friended,” I admit.
“Because... Because I didn’t do a very good job of...things.”
“You mean of ending things?”
“Right.”
“North, are you feeling guilty?”
“No. I wouldn’t change the outcome, but I wish I’d have handled the breakup better.”
Ouch.
“Well, I’m fine and no longer yours to look after.” My heart sags at the word yours. I used to belong with him and now I don’t. Everything has changed. A season has ended. That could be where the hurt is coming from. Endings are usually sad. The sad part isn’t necessarily because I miss North, but because I’m home alone. I often ate dinner alone, wondering when he would return from work or if he’d call or stop by. Now I eat alone and never wonder where he is, because it doesn’t matter. That’s sad every which way you cut it. I liked having someone to wonder and worry about.
“We’re friends though,” he says.
“We are?” I can’t help blurting. “I generally like my friends.”
“Catarina. There is no need to be cruel.”
“I’m not being cruel. I’m stating a fact. I don’t want to hang out with you. We ended. We’re done. You moved on.”
He says nothing.
“Haven’t you? The pretty blonde from work?”
“I told you she’s married.”
“That doesn’t matter to a lot of people.”
“It matters to me.” His voice is laced with pain. Enough that a sliver of guilt creeps along the back of my neck. “I was thinking we could grab a bite to eat sometime this—”
A series of hard knocks on my front door interrupts.
“Who could that be at this hour?” I mutter.
“Catarina?” North asks as I check the peephole. “Is everything all right? Who is it?”
“It’s Barrett Fox,” I tell him as I unlock the deadbolt.
“A little late for work, isn’t it?” North growls.
“Not in your handbook.” I end the call, delighting in the zing of satisfaction I feel at hanging up on him.
When I pull open the door, Barrett’s face looks like North’s voice. Hard and unyielding.
“Should I ask how you found my address?”
“12C.” He points at the number and letter on my door as if I don’t know they’re there. “You mentioned it.”
