I sit up straight, and it’s a miracle that I’m able to, with the heavy weight of remorse that presses on my chest like a boulder.
“I can’t do this anymore. We can’t do this anymore.”
I don’t look at him, but I hear his voice behind me as I rise and wrap myself in my robe, tying the belt tightly.
“What?”
“Our arrangement. It’s over. I’d . . . I’d like you to leave now.”
I head out of the room—moving swiftly, like I’m in triage. It’s all movement and training and instincts. No thoughts or feelings allowed.
Slice.
Suction.
Clamp.
“Abby! Where the fuck are you going?”
Tommy follows me to the parlor, watches as I gather his clothes from the floor—pushing them at him.
“It’s been wonderful, truly. Exactly what I needed.” I stare at the floor and I sound like a robot—an idiotic fucking robot. “But it’s run its course.”
“No, it hasn’t. It’s just getting started,” he says stubbornly. “Just . . . just slow down a fucking minute.”
Tommy grips my shoulders, holding me in place, and dips down to try and catch my eyes.
“Why are you doing this?”
Separate the limb.
Cauterize the veins.
Clean.
“I’m starting my fourth year. It’s going to be very demanding. I need to focus.”
“Then we’ll see each other a bit less. We can do that. I won’t tempt you as much with dirty texts, I swear.”
He’s trying to tease me, to cajole me back—and it’s so hard. Every cell in my body is screaming to hug him and hold him and say yes to anything he offers.
“No.” I shake my head. “That’s not going to work for me.”
Stitch.
Stitch.
“I’m done, Tommy. I need this to be done. Please go.”
Close.
Wrap.
Tommy puts on his clothes and his shoes but doesn’t move towards the door.
“Abby, listen to me. If you would just—”
I close my eyes, even though I wasn’t looking at him.
“We said there wouldn’t be any drama—no hard feelings. That’s what we agreed—you agreed.” I point at him. “You promised.”
Yes, I’m using his integrity against him and, yes, it’s unfair—but necessary. Because I need him to leave. I won’t be able to go through with it if I have to look at him, smell him, feel him close to me for much longer.
I pick up his computer from the table and his coat by the door and press them into his hands.
“Abby—”
I look up into his eyes one final time.
“Goodbye, Tommy. Thank you . . . but goodbye.”
His brow is furrowed with so much worry, but he doesn’t push me.
Because I’ve asked him to leave and he’s honorable enough to do that for me, even if he doesn’t understand. His gaze drifts over my face, like he’s memorizing it, and he touches my hair, leans down and presses a single soft kiss against my lips that almost breaks me.
Then he’s walking to the door and stepping over the threshold into the hall. At the last moment, Tommy turns back, his mouth opening to say something that I won’t be strong enough to hear.
So I slam the door in his face.
Classy.
And I lock the bolt.
I rest my forehead on the door, my breaths coming quick and harsh. And I can feel him standing on the other side in that strange way human beings can sense the presence of another person even when you can’t see them. As a cacophony of opposing wishes echoes in my head. Just go, stay, leave, please don’t go . . .
Then, after an interminable moment—he’s gone.
* * *
Tommy
What in the holy fuck just happened?
That’s the question beating like a drum in my head after I leave Abby’s. I head home, but I don’t stay there. Because I can see the hospital from my bedroom and my sheets still smell like her.
I go to the shop instead.
And proceed to get completely sloshed.
I drink vodka straight from the bottle until it’s empty and I can’t see straight. So I don’t do something really stupid—like go back to Abby’s door and ask for another chance. Another night.
I tell myself it’s the unexpectedness of it that makes it hard. The sudden end that’s making me feel like a hollowed-out husk. That I didn’t know the last time was the last time . . . and that’s why I miss her already.
At some point I pass out on the sofa in my office, on my back, my arm slung over my face and a pitiful playlist I won’t remember compiling playing on repeat from my phone.
In the morning, that’s how the lads find me.
“Is he breathing?” I hear Owen ask beyond my still closed eyes.
“Breathing? He’s snoring loud enough to wake the dead,” Walter replies. “Are you deaf?”
“Is that a Milli Vanilli song playing on his phone?” Gus wonders.
It is. “Girl I’m Gonna Miss You.” A classic.
“Maybe he’s trying to tell us something.”
“Yeah,” Harry agrees, disgustedly. “Like he wants us to shoot him.”