Page 58 of That's Not a Thing

I step off the elevator and he backs away from me across the linoleum tiles, as if I’m carrying something contagious.

“Hi,” I say tentatively, hoping he’ll be happy that I had the sudden idea to come see him in person.

“What are you doing here?” he asks, his voice more surprised than bitter.

“I thought we could talk.”

He pushes back the sleeve of his lab coat and glances at his watch. “Yeah, uh, okay. C’mon.” He turns back toward the double doors that lead to the NICU and starts walking.

I follow silently behind him, the antiseptic scent of hospital cleaners filling my nose. His lab coat is stretched taut across his broad shoulders, the tail lifting slightly behind him as he walks, and I think he looks more like an actor pretending to be a doctor than the actual article. He nods at a couple of orderlies who pass by as we make our way down the bright hallway toward the lounge that I know awaits at the end.

Once we’re alone in the small break room, he pushes the door shut and turns to face me. Another member of the hospital staff could walk in here at any moment to grab a cup of coffee or read the paper, but I suppose it’s still more private than the hallway.

He motions with his hand that I should sit at the single round table in the room. I pull out a chair, and he walks to the other side of the room. He leans back against the credenza that sits against the windows, his blue scrubs wrinkling as he folds his arms across his chest.

“Won’t you sit so we can talk?” My voice sounds plaintive.

“I’d rather keep some distance between us. I can’t think rationally if I’m close enough to touch you.” He says it almost lovingly, and I begin to hope that all is not lost.

“Maybe that’s a good thing? Maybe it means you should give me a second chance?”

He’s quiet for a couple of seconds. Only the sound of the coffeemaker humming behind me fills the room, so I stand up and start walking toward him.

“Don’t,” he says, stopping me in my tracks, making me flinch.

I retreat and flop back into the metal chair.

“If that’s why you’re here, to ask for a second chance, the answer is no.” His tone is firm but somehow not unkind; the lack of vitriol makes its bite that much worse. “We’re way beyond that,” he continues. “You got a second chance after you went down to Wesley’s restaurant and invited him to move into my apartment without discussing it with me. Or maybe your second chance came after you went out for drinks with him months ago without telling me about it, when you canceled a date with me that night and said you were working.”

My mouth opens to argue that I did tell him the next day, but he’s picking up steam.

“What I know now is that I can’t take any more. I can’t lie in bed at night, wondering if you’d rather be across the hall. All this time, I was hoping you would prove me wrong. But I can’t keep asking myself if I’m only the consolation prize because your first choice is dying.”

“No, Aaron!” I stand again as I interrupt, realizing I’m yelling, but not caring. “I had a lot of screwed-up emotions invested in that relationship, unresolved feelings that were all the more intense because they were tied up with my mom’s sickness and my parents’ almost divorce. Everything was more intense because of the high velocity emotions during that time of my life. And then it all ended so abruptly. My parents’ relationship was fixed. Wesley was gone. My engagement was over. Two people were dead. It was confusing to have him come back, okay? I won’t lie. I thought I still had feelings for him. But I thought wrong. I was so caught up in nostalgic memories that I forgot all the ways I found him selfish, the ways I had to change my life to fit into his. Being around him these past months, I guess I was on a quest to be forgiven, to know that he didn’t really believe that his parents died because of me. Everything else, it was just my own baggage that I had to work out. But I’ve resolved it all now, and I see what I want, and I know where to find it. The only place I have to look is right in front of me. At you.”

Aaron’s lips twist at that, hostility taking hold of his features.

“Then why were you searching for answers at the bottom of Wesley’s throat? Fishing for truth with your tongue?” He has rediscovered his anger, but I don’t let it sway me. I don’t back down.

“Look, I came here to tell you that I love you, that I’m not giving up on us. I don’t care what I have to do to prove it to you, but I won’t give up.” My voice cracks, and a quick sob escapes from my throat against my will.

His features relax at that, and he steps toward me. My heart rate picks up, and I wait for him to tell me I’m forgiven. He places his hands on my shoulders and leans down so that his forehead is resting against mine.

“Mer,” he says quietly, longingly, and his breath grazes my cheeks, “I can’t imagine that I will ever stop loving you. But the more time I have to think”—his lip begins to curl, like he’s disgusted—“I just keep picturing his hands all over you, the two of you tangled together, and I can’t. I can’t be with you. Instead of proving that you’ve moved on from Wesley, that your feelings for me are as legit as you say, this time with him in the apartment has only shown me the opposite, that I can’t trust you.” He steps back and lets out a weighty breath. “You’ve screwed us both, I guess.”

He walks toward the coffee carafe that’s resting half full on the machine and reaches for a cup. The white Styrofoam nearly disappears inside his large hand. His back is tense as he pours the coffee.

“I really have to get back to work,” he says, now all business. “If you could text me a time tomorrow when the apartment will be empty, I’ll come by for some things. I’m assuming you’ll take care of canceling all the wedding stuff. I know you have experience with that.”

He clips past me toward the door without meeting my eyes, and then I am alone.

WHEN I REACHTwenty-first Street a short while later, still swiping at tears with the heel of my hand, I find Lana leaning against the brick exterior of our apartment building.

She straightens when she sees me and tosses her phone into her white leather satchel. “Hey,” she says, “I was just on my way up to you, but the doorman said you weren’t back yet.” She fiddles with the latch on her bag, trying to fasten it, before she finally looks up and notices the tear-stained nature of my face.

“Meredith, what the fuck?”

“Come,” I say, taking her by the arm. I glance behind me, wondering whether Wesley is still on his way home or already upstairs, waiting to have the meeting I requested. I nod at the new night doorman as we enter the bright lobby, and instead of walking toward the elevators, I pull Lana into the little alcove before the mail room. I need somewhere private to fill her in properly, and this little anteroom will have to do.