“I had to leave because you were all that mattered to me.” I hate how calm he sounds, that confidence still ruling his tone.

Fury rushes my veins, and I fist my hands at my sides, the velvet cap getting the brunt of my anger. I turn back, throwing it on the chair with the gown. “You have some nerve saying that. Your memory has faded, but mine hasn’t.”

Leaning forward, he rests his arms on the chair in front of him. “What do you remember, Lark?”

“I remember you telling me how proud of me you were, kissing me like it was the last kiss we’d share.” Tears collect in the corners of my eyes. Not from the pain I feel but from the anger that fills me. “You told me to remember you loved me always. You made me tell you I would. You drove us to New Haven, and we picked an apartment like we’d share it together. We made plans, Harbor.” I lose steam, not seeing the point of revisiting memory lane. Exhaling, I whisper, “I remember you loved me.”

I stare at him through the watery lens of my stubborn perspective, unable to understand what the point of this is. Is he trying to win me back or close a chapter?

“I still do.”

I anchor my hand on my hip, shaking my head. “You can’t.”

After a quick shrug, he says, “What I can’t do is help it.”

“Try harder.” I move down the row, and when I’m free from the surrounding chairs, I stop again. “Ugh!” He’s infuriating. Spinning back, I ask, “Why did you leave? Where did you go?”

He comes closer, his steps slower as if we have all day to discuss the past. I sure don’t. My mind is already balancing between my dad and friend who are waiting on me and this man who did so much damage that the aftershocks are still felt.

He says, “Los Angeles for a short time and then Italy for a couple of years. The last two, I’ve been around, traveling a lot for—”

“To process your feelings while I had to deal with mine?” I hate myself the second the words leave my mouth. I’ve never been one to choose the low road, but I also wasn’t afforded the same emotional luxuries since he alone decided our fate.

This time he’s staring at me, his expression lying in indifference. “I always did take too long for you.” He slips his hand under the collar at his neck. “Seems I did this time as well.” He walks past me, and says, “Congratulations, Doctor.”

For graduating or for winning the argument?

I don’t feel good either way. I wrap my arms over my stomach and then go back to grab the cap and gown I almost forgot. Why can’t I just have a normal graduation?

I leave the building and search the sidewalk until I see Amanda and my dad waiting on a bench. I go to them, plastering on a fake smile, and ask, “Ready for lunch?”