Felipe follows you to the car.
Neither of you speaks until you reach the driveway.
Then he says, “Emma.”
You stop with your hand on the car door.
He looks older than he did an hour ago.
“I’m sorry.”
You wait.
He continues.
“I thought I was keeping peace.”
“No,” you say. “You were keeping your friendship comfortable.”
His eyes redden.
“I know.”
“Do you?”
He nods.
“I think I do now.”
You look toward the house where Clara’s shadow moves behind an upstairs window.
“Now is not the same as then.”
“I know.”
“You watched him hurt me in rooms full of people. You held my knee like I was a barking dog you needed to calm. You asked me to come tonight after I told you I didn’t want to. You knew who paid his agency, and you let him call me stupid.”
Felipe covers his face.
You almost reach for him.
Your old instinct rises fast. Comfort him. Soften it. Tell him he is not a bad man. Make his guilt smaller so the night can end.
But you are tired of making men comfortable after they fail you.
So you let him stand in it.
“I loved you,” you say.
He drops his hands.
“Loved?”
The word cuts through him.
You do not answer immediately.
Because the truth is not simple. You still love parts of him. The way he makes coffee. The way he sings badly in the shower. The way he holds your hand in sleep. The way he cried when your first store turned a profit.
But love that cannot stand up in public starts to feel like loneliness with witnesses.
“I don’t know what I feel right now,” you say.
He nods slowly.
“I’ll stay somewhere else tonight.”
“No,” you say. “I will.”
He looks alarmed.
“Emma—”
“I need quiet. Not explanations. Not apologies. Quiet.”
You get into the car.
This time, he does not stop you.
