The anger on his face made one thing clear: all he knows is pain. Every square inch inside of him is drenched in it. He tries to hide from it, but there’s no hiding. Tried to hide inside of me. He probably thought his hiding was love. I know I thought it was. And maybe I was hiding in him, too, I’ll admit.

But no more. I’m out. Done with whatever this screwed-up thing is that he calls love. I can’t do it anymore.

The booming thunder agrees. I’m still in bed, staring out my window, thoughts pouring down.

I deserve better than what he has to give.

Anyway, how could I ever trust him again after what he did to me?

I can’t.

It’s over.

My phone rings and I roll over in bed to grab it where I left it on my pillow, but it’s not there. I quickly sit up and throw my Kantha quilt back, my sheet back. Still don’t see it. Third ring. This can’t be happening. I lift my pillow and my stomach growls in relief. Still haven’t been out of my room to get those blueberry scones, but Cole was right. “Hello,” I answer.

“Hi,” Rex says, his voice as heavy as the rain coming down outside.

Hearing his tender voice puts me right back inside of him, and I send all the things I just told myself packing. I lie back down and reach to touch Rex’s face on the wall right above my pillow. I have the picture of us on the sofa pinned up between a sketch of a sunflower forest and a line from Kahlil Gibran’s Prophet.

All these things shall love do unto you that you may know the secrets of your heart,

and in that knowledge become a fragment of Life’s heart.

I look at it every night before I go to sleep and every morning when I wake up, trying to figure out what it means.

“I’m sorry about the video. About what people are saying,” I tell him.

“What video?”

“Never mind,” I say, ready to play the tell-me game.

He doesn’t press for more.

“And I’m really sorry for missing your game,” I start to explain, “at the end of my game, Shannon—”

“Wait,” he interrupts. “I just called to say I can’t do this anymore. And I’m really sorry for what I did to you last night. It was wrong. I had no right. I was just so upset.”

Clearly he can’t mean what he’s saying? I get it because I was just thinking the same thing, but I didn’t mean it, either.

“You don’t mean that,” I say.

“Yes I do.”

“No you don’t.”

“Yes I do.”

“You’re just upset. But if you let me explain—”