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“I just don’t know,” he says, and for how smart he is, I cannot stand in this moment that he doesn’t have all the answers. “I’m going to hate myself for saying this, but I think—I think I might need some time to figure out what happiness looks like on my own. How I can be happy in New York knowing that you’re happy in Boston.”

He drops his hands, and just like that, I am rudderless.

A fish snatched out of water.

A plant without sunlight.

I want to ride out this darkness with him, whatever that looks like. I want to fight—but I am also so incredibly exhausted. Tired of missing him. Tired of uncertainty.

If he has to do it alone, then I might have to let him. Even if it kills me.

So I give him a slow, agonized nod that rips my heart in half. Leaves pieces of it scattered across Manhattan. “If that’s what you need to do.”

He gives me the same slow nod back.

We both go quiet for a while, just staring at each other, unsure what to do with our limbs. It’s almost rhythmic, the way our chests still heave with the effort of it all. On another day, it might even be soothing. His suit is wrinkled, his hair wild, and while I must look similarly messy, I can’t bring myself to care.

I don’t know what happens now.

“Could I—could I still hold you?” I ask.

That’s all it takes for the dam to break again. With new tears, he collects all of me in his arms, clumsy hands rushing over fabric and skin.

This cannot be the last time he touches me like this.

“Come here,” he says between kisses that taste like salt, and even though I’m already there, I bury my face in his chest. Searching for his heartbeat.

“I’m sorry,” he says over and over. “I’m so sorry.”

Clothes start coming off; I’m not sure who reaches for what first. At the beginning of the night, I imagined slowly peeling away his suit and tie, how he’d react when he found the lace underwear I have on. Now I barely register any of it, too focused on getting my skin bare against his.

We arch and bend for each other like we are starving, wound tight, craving release. That release comes quickly for both of us, and when our bodies separate, even just for the minute it takes for him to dispose of the condom and for me to use the bathroom, I can’t stop shivering.

Then he wraps around me like a shadow, one arm secured at my waist, my back against his chest. His mouth at the nape of my neck, his exhales traveling down my spine.

When I wake up the next morning, he’s already gone.

22

NEIL

IT’S POSSIBLE I’VE just made the single worst mistake of my life.

* * *

The next week is absolute hell.

The regret is an immediate, visceral thing—from what I said to the way I crept out of the hotel room. I justify it by telling myself it would have hurt too much to see her in the morning. I would have tried to take it all back. I would have let her remain my crutch, the way I have this entire year.

Maybe I should have, I wonder on the subway, though I quash the thought as quickly as it arrives as I slouch next to bleary-eyed partygoers and drunken night owls, all of us looking miserable in our own unique ways. The MTA: the great equalizer.

The ache in my chest doesn’t go away. It only gets worse as I mumble excuses to Skyler and crawl into bed. As I cycle through what I could have said if I stayed.

My heart is breaking. There isn’t an easy answer here, no matter how much I wish there would be. I already miss you more than I thought possible.

But I can’t keep saying goodbye to her and feeling like she’s taking a huge and vital piece of me with her when she leaves. It is too much expectation, too much pressure to heap onto the person I love so dearly. When I spell it out logically, I understand it completely. I made a rational decision, one that I thought was best for both of us.

This heart, I’ve realized, doesn’t care much for logic.