I’m still waiting for Owen to yell the words.
How many seconds have passed now?
Each one is excruciating.
The longer we’re quiet, the clearer it all becomes.
This isn’t a joke. He means what he said.
Still, with a shred of hope left in my rapidly deflating heart, I ask, “Is this just a really bad April fool’s joke?” I despise how my voice shakes.
His sigh is my answer, but he speaks anyway. “No, Aubrey. It’s bad timing. I’m sor—”
I pull my phone away from my ear and stare at it, the rest of his sorry floating out into the air. With my thumb I end the call and toss my phone on the bed beside me. I don’t need to hear his apology.
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