Page 50 of The Clinch
Leo glances at me, then back to the road. “No.”
That should help. It doesn’t.
“Did he make a scene?”
“No.”
The city keeps moving past the windows, unbothered. A woman in running clothes waits at a crosswalk. A guy on a bike cuts between lanes. Somewhere, a siren starts up and fades.
I hear myself ask, very evenly, “What did he want?”
“You.”
The word is a gut punch. No softening around it.
Leo’s voice stays level. “He wanted me to know he’s not done.”
My heart runs so fast, there seem to be no individual beats.
Run, says the oldest part of me.
Pack. Book. Disappear before sunset.
But then the rest comes in behind it.
If I run now, I don’t just blow up my life.
I blow up his.
And I hate that part of me notices something else too—that the thought of leaving him lands like a loss before I’ve even decided anything.
Leo doesn’t push into the silence. He just says, “If this is too much, tell me now.”
I look at him. He means it.
That’s the problem.
He would let me out if I asked. He would make room. He would probably drive me to the airport himself and never once make me pay for the mess I would leave behind.
And somehow that makes staying feel more dangerous, not less.
I look back out the window. “I’m still here, aren’t I?”
The answer is sharper than I meant it to be. Leo takes it without flinching.
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “You are.”
We pull up outside the hospital.
“Text me when you’re inside.”
I open the door. “I know how phones work, Brooklyn.”
The corner of his mouth moves, but only just. “Good.”
I get out without turning back. I feel him there, waiting until I’m through the doors. Making sure I get inside.
Acting like kissing me on the museum steps and then sliding right back into silence cost him nothing at all.
