I inhaled. God, this was awkward. Had it always been this way? I couldn't even remember how we used to talk. Any sense of familiarity had flitted away.
"Your--uh--side must be better," I said. "If you're out jogging."
"Walking. Not jogging. Not yet."
He sat in the recliner opposite me. I inhaled again. This wasn't working. There was no easy way to do this.
"About what you saw that day ..." I began.
He said nothing.
"About what you--uh--saw me do."
"I didn't see anything." His voice was soft, barely audible.
"I know you did and we need to talk about it."
He met my eyes. "I didn't see anything."
"Philip, I know--"
"No." He spat the word, then pulled back and shook his head. "I don't remember anything about that day, Elena. You went to work. Your cousin came up looking for you. Two other men came up looking for you. Someone stabbed me. Then it's all a blank."
I knew he was lying. For the safety of the Pack, I should pursue it, get him to admit what he'd seen, and find a way to explain it away. Yet something told me that this was better for Philip. Let him explain it his own way. I owed him that much.
"I should go now."
I got to my feet. He said nothing. I saw my bags stacked in the hall, next to a few boxes of his own stuff.
"I've subletted the apartment," he said. "I--" He rubbed the bridge of his nose. "I would have called you, your cell phone. I was ... working my way up to it."
"I'm sorry."
"I know." He met my eyes for the first time since I'd arrived and managed the barest ghost of a smile. "It was good, still. A mistake, but a good one. If you come back to Toronto someday, maybe you can look me up. Have a drink together or something."
I nodded. As I lifted my bags, my gaze flitted to the hall table.
"It's in the drawer," Philip said softly.
I turned to say something, but he was heading into the bedroom, his back to me. He closed the door.
"I'm sorry," I whispered.
I pushed open the lobby doors and walked out carrying two small pieces of luggage. I'd left a note for Philip to give the rest to charity or throw it in the garbage. There was nothing there I needed. I only took the two bags so he wouldn't think I was abandoning my things in anger. There was only one item in that apartment I'd really wanted back, the item I'd retrieved from the hall table drawer. I still had it in my hand. As I stood in the building vestibule, I put down the luggage, and opened my fist. Clay's wedding band gleamed in the streetlights.
Clay.
What was I going to do about Clay?
Despite all we'd been through, I still couldn't give him what he wanted. I couldn't promise my life to him, swear I'd be by his side every waking and sleeping minute, 'til death do us part. But I loved him. Loved him completely. There would be no other men in my life, no other lovers. I could promise him that. As for the rest, well, I'd have to offer what I could and hope it would be enough.
"You're here."
I looked up sharply. Clay stood in the wavering yellow light of a streetlamp. For a moment, I thought I was imagining things. Then he stepped forward, his left leg dragging, not completely healed after his ordeal.
"Didn't you get my note?" I asked.
"Note?"