“I know,” he whispered. “And I couldn’t be.”
We sat there, the truth lying between us like an open wound.
Finally, he said, “I’ll stop telling people you left because I wasn’t ready. I didn’t realize they were taking it out on you.”
“It doesn’t matter anymore,” I said. “They already chose a story.”
“But I don’t want them to hate you.”
I shook my head.
“It’s okay if they do. I’m not trying to win them back.”
He swallowed hard.
“Can we fix this?” he asked.
It was the first time he’d asked. Not begged out of fear, not panicked, not trying to prevent me from walking away. Just a raw, honest question.
Could we fix this?
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