"Lydia." He stepped in front of me. "Let's talk."
"About what?"
"There's nothing between me and her. We're just friends—"
"Just friends." I laughed. "You spent her birthday with her. I was having a miscarriage, and you were by her side. That's what you call 'just friends'?"
He went quiet.
I pushed past him and walked into the bedroom to pack. He trailed behind me like a child who knew he'd done something wrong.
"I know I messed up. I really do. You can hit me, yell at me, anything. Just don't leave, okay?"
I ignored him.
"I cut things off with her. I mean it. She quit yesterday. We'll never talk again. Will you come back? Please?"
I zipped the last piece of clothing into my suitcase, pulled it upright, and turned to face him.
"Clay, do you know what I was thinking on that operating table?"
He stared at me.
"I was thinking that if I died right there, that would be fine. Nobody was waiting for me anyway."
His eyes went red.
"Don't cry." I grabbed the handle of my suitcase. "You don't deserve those tears."
What happened after that, I heard from other people.
After Juliana quit, she moved to another company. Clay went after her, waited outside her new office building, and got chased off by security.
He took an extended leave. Drank every day. Made a major mistake at work and got demoted.
A friend told me that when he was drunk, he'd mumble my name over and over, calling himself a bastard, saying he deserved it.
I listened. Felt nothing.
Not hatred. Just nothing.
That light on the operating table had been so bright, it burned something out of me.
It was June now.
I'd started a new job, far from that apartment. My new coworkers didn't know my past. All they knew was that I was single and didn't like talking about relationships.
Yesterday a guy from the department next door added me on social media, said he wanted to get to know me.
I accepted. Didn't really chat.
It wasn't that I didn't want to start over. I just wasn't in a rush.
I had to let the scar heal first.
Clay texted again yesterday. A long message. I deleted it before I finished reading.
He asked if we could meet one more time. Said he was sorry.
There was nothing to be sorry for.
I was the one who spent five years before I finally saw him for what he was.
Oh, right. I forgot to mention.