Every fiber of my being wanted to nod my head and say I wanted that too. I did. I probably wanted it even more than she did. I also didn’t want to be the next bastard who broke Pearl’s heart.

I thought that maybe I could be different with Pearl–that maybe this time wouldn’t be the same. But, I’d thought of some version of that every time I got into a relationship. It wasn’t like I dated women with intentions of breaking their hearts. Pearl wasn’t like any of them, though. I cared far more about getting it right with her, and that’s why I wasn’t willing to buy my own bullshit. This time, I was going to do the right thing, no matter how much it stung.

“I can’t,” I said. “I’m sorry, Pearl. We need to just keep pretending. A few more days, then I’ll be out of your hair. Then we can both forget about all this.”

Tears welled in her eyes. “That’s what you want? To forget about me?”

I let go of her hands, taking a step back. I ran my hand through the back of my hair, ruffling it in annoyance with myself. All the words I wanted to say were the ones I couldn’t. I care too much to risk hurting you. Making you cry is the last thing I want to do. I’d leave the city behind for you, if you asked me to. I would’ve done anything for her. I knew that, now. But that was why I had to do this. “I want to go back to the way things were,” I said. “Before all of this.”

“Before me,” she corrected. A tear rolled down her cheek, pattering to the floor.

“How is everything fitting in there?” the woman asked.

“Leave us alone!” Pearl snapped.

She turned her focus back on me. “I don’t want to see you right now.”

“Yeah, I get that.”

“Don’t try to talk to me in our room. I think it would be best if we just avoid each other as much as we can from here forward.”

“Alright,” I said.

“You can go,” Pearl said, pointing.

I felt like shit and wanted to say a million things, but I did as she asked. Once I was outside, I balled my fists and slammed them into the brick of the building, not caring when the gritty texture bit into my skin. I leaned my forehead against the wall, breathing hard and pounding the brick again and again.

“Fuck!” I shouted.

I heard a small voice repeat the word back to me, like a childish echo.

I looked up and saw a horrified mother passing behind me with her daughter who must’ve been five or six.

“Sorry, I–”

“You should be ashamed of yourself!” she said, urging her daughter past me, who was now chanting “fuck” in a sing-song voice to the tune of Ring Around The Rosy.

Yeah, I thought. Ashamed was a good word for how I felt. There were other words, but that one was pretty good.