Ten Years of Lies He Never Loved Me

A text from a friend: Did you and Valentine get into a fight?

A text from my mom: Sweetie, coming home for dinner next week? I'll make ribs.

I replied to each one.

I'm fine.

We didn't fight.

Yeah, I'll be there Saturday.

When I was done, I opened the photo of that wilting rose and stared at it for a long time.

Then I deleted the post.

My phone buzzed again.

Unknown number. This time, a call.

I picked up.

"What the hell do you want?" Valentine's voice, raw, like he'd smoked through an entire pack.

I didn't say anything.

"I've been out looking for you for hours. I'm soaked to the bone, you won't pick up, you won't text back. What do you want from me?"

I still didn't say anything.

"Say something."

"Say what?"

He choked on that.

"Tell me what you want." His voice dropped low. "Just tell me. I'll give it to you."

I looked out the window. The rain was still falling. A film of condensation clung to the glass.

"You've always known what I want," I said. "But after ten years, you never gave me any of it."

He went quiet.

"Valentine. Do you love me?"

Silence.

Rain. Breathing. Somewhere far away, the sound of a car plowing through standing water.

"Why are you asking me that?"

"Just answer the question."

More silence.

Then he said, "I love you."

Quiet. Quick. Like the words had been pried out of him.

I heard those three words and realized I felt nothing.

"Then why didn't you ever say it?" I asked. "Ten years. Why couldn't you say it to me?"

"I... couldn't get the words out."

"What about someone else?"

"What?"

"Rosalie," I said. "Could you get the words out for her?"

He panicked. "What does she have to do with this? I already told you, she's just—"

"Think carefully before you answer." I cut him off. "Valentine, think very carefully. Have you ever told her you loved her?"

He went silent.

"Even if it wasn't love," I said. "That you liked her. That you felt sorry for her. That you wanted to protect her. Did you ever say any of that?"

Rain.

Breathing.

Silence.

"She saved my life when we were kids." His voice came out muffled, sudden. "I was eight. I fell into a river and she jumped in after me. She nearly drowned too."

I closed my eyes.

"So I..." he said. "If something happens to her, I can't just do nothing."

"I know."

"Then why are you—"

"Valentine." I opened my eyes and stared at the fog on the glass. "She saved you when you were eight. I met you when I was twenty-four."

He said nothing.

"She saved your life, and you've carried that debt for twenty years." I said. "I gave you ten years of mine. Did you ever carry that?"

"I did."

"Carried what, exactly?"

He went silent again.

"You remembered that I cooked for you. That I did your laundry. That I kept the apartment clean." I said. "You remembered that I waited for you, no matter how late you came home. You remembered that I never made a scene, never started a fight, never asked you for anything."

"..."

"You remembered that I was easy." I said. "That I was low-maintenance. That I'd always be there, never needing your attention, never needing you to worry, never making you afraid of losing me."

The rain eased.

"But you don't know what my favorite food is," I said. "You don't know when I get off work. You don't know that I'm afraid of the dark, afraid of thunder, afraid of being alone. You don't know that every time I sat in this apartment waiting for you, waiting past midnight, waiting until I fell asleep, all I'd get was a text saying you weren't coming home."