Six weeks since New Year’s Day. Me shoving clothes into my bag. Tony still dirty and hungover from the night before.
“You just left her?” he had demanded.
“What was I supposed to do?”
“Work it out. Forgive her. I don’t know. Give her a chance at least. This isn’t you.” He had his coat on, the zipper hanging open with a ski lift ticket on it, a burgundy ball cap on his head with a yellow script R.
“It’s been over for a while now.”
He stood in the corner of my old bedroom, watching me move from dresser to bed. Under his coat a buttoned-up flannel, a t-shirt beneath that, still wrinkled because he’d slept in it. The same Tony as every other day for our whole lives.
“Have you even thought about what you’re doing?” He sounded frustrated but didn’t step any closer to me. Angry but not able to raise his voice. Hoarse with the thickness of too many cigarettes. Weak from no sleep. High.
I tugged the zipper around the edge of the bag.
“I didn’t do this to us,” I said.
“Didn’t you?” Tony who’d always known me best. But I was different. Changed by the events of the last fourteen hours. Sick and tired of them all.
“Time to leave?” he had asked, one eyebrow raised, eyes milky, lips dry.
“Seems like it’s always time to leave.” I hoisted the bag onto my shoulder.
That wasn’t how it was supposed to go. That shouldn’t have been the last time we were in the same room. Not fighting about Kacie of all damned things. I wrote that scene. Captured our dialogue and his posture and my bravado and the suffocating tension. I wrote it in a spiral notebook in pencil on the return flight. But I didn’t know it was our last scene together.
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