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He opens the door for me to leave. I stare at him for a moment, trying to find the right words to tell him how sorry I am. He’s looking at me with his face all pinched up, cheeks nearly red as tomatoes, a little pink creeping up his ears. It’s the face he makes when he’s so angry or upset that he gets choked up, can’t say what he wants, but it shows all over his expression. I used to think he looked so cute when he got angry like that. So precious, like a chipmunk. But now that it’s aimed at me, now that I can see all that anger and hurt is because of what I’ve done, I’m terrified. He looked at me this way last night after I told him about the hook-up—no, the cheating—and his voice suddenly got loud and frail at the same time. I couldn’t stand to see him that way. I can’t stand it now, to know I’ve done this to him. How could I have done this to him?
Something in my chest is squeezing so hard I feel the urge to vomit, but nothing comes up. My mouth tastes sour. I can’t help but remember back to our first time together when he told me how proud he was to be my boyfriend. When he said that something welled up in me then, a pressure that squeezed my heart tight. But that was the good kind of pressure, the kind that made me feel so warm inside I thought I might melt. I was so happy—that’s all I ever wanted. It’s what I still want. But here he is now, the opposite of proud. He can’t stand to be near me.
Suddenly I realize how long I’ve been standing here, how long he’s been waiting for me to leave. His hand grips the door frame so tight his knuckles are turning white. He doesn’t want me here. Automatically I swallow, nervous. In response, that squeezing in my chest moves up to my throat. It’s like I’ve lost all oxygen—I can’t breathe! The walls of my throat are closing in, and I can’t do anything to stop it.
I want to drop everything and hug him as tight as I can, to breach this divide and show how sorry I am, to take it all back, to go back to a time when wrapping my arms around him was all it took to comfort him, to make him feel safe.
But I don’t. I can’t. He hasn’t gotten near me since I told him the truth. He distances himself from me like I’m patient zero of some deadly disease that could kill him. I feel like I am. I feel like I’ve killed something.
I open my mouth to say something, anything, but all that comes out is, “Bye, Kurt.” And before I can do anything else stupid or unforgivable, I turn around and walk out the door. Because I know that’s what he wants me to do. And I have to respect what he wants if there’s any ever hope of winning him back.