I remembered the white puffs of his breath when he talked. The way he'd grab my hand and stuff it into his coat pocket without asking. The flicker of something soft in his eyes when he looked down at me.
I reached the intersection. Red light.
I stopped and stared at the countdown, the numbers glowing an angry red.
Sixty seconds.
An eternity.
My phone started buzzing again. Once. Twice. Three times.
I stared at the name flashing on the screen: "My Val."
I hadn't changed that contact name in ten years. He'd snatched my phone when we first got together and typed it in himself. All this time later, it was still those two words.
The screen lit up and went dark. Went dark and lit up again.
On the sixth call, I picked up.
"Where are you?"
His voice was tight, a little rushed. The background noise was loud, the sound of a bar door swinging open and shut.
Someone called out, "Val, where you going?"
"Walking," I said.
"Look, about what just happened, I swear I didn't know she was gonna do that. Everyone was egging it on and I couldn't just—"
"Valentine."
He paused. "What?"
The light turned green.
I stepped forward. My footsteps were even, one after another. Steady.
"I just changed that contact name," I said.
"...What?"
"You typed it in yourself, remember?" I said. "The contact name. You grabbed my phone and said I could only save that one. No other names allowed."
Two seconds of silence on the other end.
Then he laughed, that half-hearted laugh laced with exasperation. "That's it? You scared me. So change it. Just put it back the way it was."
"I changed it to your full name."
He stopped laughing.
"Valentine Henson," I said. "Your full name."
The wind cut through again. I pulled my coat tighter. On the sidewalk, a couple strolled past arm in arm, the girl holding a stick of candy, the boy leaning down to press a kiss to her hair.
"What's that supposed to mean?" His voice dropped low.
"Exactly what it sounds like."
"Because she sat on my lap?" His pitch climbed. "I already told you, she was drunk and messing around. You wanted me to shove her off in front of everyone? I grew up with her. Her parents know my parents. You want me to—"
"I know."
"You know, and you're still acting like this?"
"I know she's your childhood friend." I kept my voice steady. "I know your families are close. I know she's different to you. I know your whole group calls her 'wifey.' I know all of that."
He went quiet.