Part
of me hoped that Paul would open his arms and pull me to him. Instead he just
kind of sat there with a blank, tired look in his eyes. It took him a minute to
say anything. In that time we just watched each other in that half-caring,
half-suspicious way of people who are sizing each other up double time.
“Well,”
he finally said, “that’s a lot.”
Dismissive.
Over it. Over me, already. How did that happen so fast? And yet this is what the
other part of me had wanted: someone who saw me as clearly as he apparently did
to step away, fast and furious, leaving no tracks, creating no trail.
Leave, then. Leave, and be done with it.
Done with me.
“I
mean,” he said, “You’ve got a lot going on, Meredith. I guess what I’m
wondering if there’s any room for me.”
Well,
there you had it. He didn’t want to leave. He wanted to stay. He wanted to
stand by me. Just what I’d always wanted, right?
“I’m
not sure,” I said, and then fought the urge to slap myself.
There
weren’t really words for the look that crossed his face. You could say it was
one part fury mixed with two parts resignation. In any event, it was a cocktail
too strong for me to drink.
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