“What do you think I’m going to do? Take you prisoner?” She didn’t reply. I squeezed past her into the kitchen. She turned and stood in the doorway, facing me. I had no idea what to say to her. I had no idea where to begin.

“I love you.”

“I’m warning you, don’t start.”

“If I’ve screwed up, just give me a chance to put things right. I’ll try harder—”

“There’s nothing worse than when you try harder . The strain is so fucking obvious.”

“I always thought I’d—” I met her eyes: dark, expressive, impossibly beautiful. Even now, the sight of them cut through everything else I was thinking and feeling, and transformed part of me into a helpless, infatuated child. But I’d still, always, concentrated, I’d always paid attention. How had it come to this? What signs could I have missed … when, how? I wanted to demand dates and times and places—

Gina looked away and said, “It’s too late to change anything. I’ve found someone else. I’ve been seeing someone else for the last three months. If you really didn’t know that … what kind of message did you need? Did I have to bring him home and screw him in front of you?”

I closed my eyes. I didn’t want to hear this; it was just noise that made everything more complicated. I said slowly, “I don’t care what you’ve done. We can still—”

She took a step toward me and shouted, “ I care! You selfish moron! I care! ” Tears were streaming down her face. Beneath everything I was struggling to understand, I just ached to hold her; I still couldn’t believe I was the reason for all her pain.

She said contemptuously, “Look at you! I’m the one who’s just told you I’ve been screwing someone else behind your back! I’m the one who’s walking out! And it still hurts me a thousand times more than anything will ever hurt you—”

I must have thought about what I did next, I must have planned it, but I don’t remember turning to the sink and hunting for a knife, I don’t remember opening my shirt. But I found myself standing by the kitchen doorway, carving lines back and forth across my stomach with the point of the blade, saying calmly, “You always wanted scars. Here are some scars.”

Gina threw herself at me, knocking me off my feet. I pushed the knife away, under the table. Before I could get up, she sat on my chest, and started slapping and punching me. She screamed, “You think that hurts? You think that’s the same? You don’t even know the difference, do you? Do you? ”