Ten Years of Lies He Never Loved Me

"I asked you what you're doing."

I looked down at his hand.

That hand. I'd held it a thousand times. Crossing the street. Tucked into his coat pocket in winter. Draped over my waist while we slept.

I knew every line on that palm, every degree of its warmth, the shape of every knuckle.

But now, with his fingers clamped around my wrist, it felt like a stranger's hand.

"Let go," I said.

He didn't. He squeezed tighter.

"Look at me."

I didn't move.

"I said look at me."

I raised my head.

His eyes were red. Whether from the rain or something else, I couldn't tell. Stubble shadowed his jaw, patches he hadn't finished shaving that morning. His lips were cracked, a thin film of dry skin peeling along the edges.

He stared at me. His gaze traveled down from my face to the suitcase, then to the pile of clothes on the floor, and finally back up.

"You're serious?" he asked.

I said nothing.

"You're serious?" he asked again. His voice changed, like something had lodged in his throat. "Over this? Over this bullshit?"

"Bullshit?" I repeated.

"Yes, bullshit!" His voice shot up. "She sat on my lap for a second, so what? I've known her for over twenty years. If there was ever anything between us, it would've happened already. You think it'd wait until now? Is this really worth all this? Is it?"

I looked at him.

He was breathing hard, chest heaving, and the hand gripping mine was shaking.

"Valentine," I said. "You're hurting me."

He froze for a second. His grip loosened, but he didn't let go.

"I'm not letting go," he said. "The second I do, you'll run."

"Can't you just let me explain?" His voice dropped, carrying a softness I'd never heard before. "She had too much to drink tonight. The guys were egging her on. She plops down on my lap and what am I supposed to do? Shove her off? Then how do our families face each other after that?"

"You could've stood up before she sat down," I said.

He went still.

"You could've said something when they started egging her on. Told them she has a boyfriend, told them to knock it off." I kept going. "You could've shifted away when she leaned on your shoulder. You could've, when you saw me standing there, done something other than frown and look away. You could've gotten up. Walked over. Taken my hand."

He didn't move.

"You didn't do any of that," I said. "You didn't do a single thing, Valentine."

His lips parted. Nothing came out.

"Ten years," I said. "I waited five years for you to go public with us. I waited three years for you to introduce me to your friends. I waited ten entire years to hear you say 'I love you.'"

"I said it," he blurted. "Just now. On the phone. I said it."

"Because I asked," I said. "I asked, and only then did you say it. If I hadn't asked, you never would have."

He went quiet.

"You just asked me if this was really worth all this?" I said. "Valentine, let me tell you whether it is."

I wrenched my hand free.

He didn't grab for it again. His arm dropped to his side, soaking wet, dripping water onto the floor.

"I was twenty-four when I met you. You were twenty-six," I said. "It was my friend's birthday. A bar. You were at the next table over and came to ask for a light. I didn't have one, but you walked away with my drink."

He watched me.

"Later you added me on WhatsApp. Asked me what that drink was called," I said. "I told you it was a Long Island Iced Tea. You asked if it was any good. I said it was fine, just hits you later."

"I remember," he said.

"What do you remember?"

"I remember the white dress you wore that day." His voice was low, almost reverent. "I remember your hair was curly, and when you smiled, there was a dimple on the right side. I remember turning back to look at you as I left, and you happened to be looking at me too."

I froze.

"I remember all of it," he said. "Every single detail. What you were drinking, what you were wearing, what you said. I remember everything."