Page 92 of Smash

“No.” He turned back. “Don’t try to justify it for either of us. There was no excuse.”

His honesty was brutal. I turned to the painting again because looking directly at him hurt too much. The woman on the canvas stood there in the rain, not moving, not knowing which way to go. Just like me.

“I miss talking to you,” I admitted.

Rafe closed his eyes, and I watched his Adam’s apple bob up and down. “Do you love him?”

The question should’ve been easy. It had been when my mom asked. But standing here, there was no answer that wouldn’t hurt.

“I think so,” I whispered.

“You think so?”

“I’m confused. I don’t know anything for sure right now.”

Rafe’s jaw clenched. “Then go upstairs and figure it out.”

My gaze jumped to meet his.

His eyes were sad, but his voice was stern. “Go back to Calder and do whatever you can to make it right.”

My lips parted, but nothing came out right away. “Rafe—”

“No.” He shook his head. “Don’t come here because he won’t talk to you. Don’t make me a place to land when you feel like you’re falling. I can’t be that. Not now. Not after what I did to him.”

“I wasn’t trying to—”

“I know.” His voice broke, just slightly. “That’s the problem. I believe you. I believe you came here to try to make things right. But you can’t make things right with both of us. So go make it right with him. And forget me.”

I looked down, noticing the blue specks of paint on his bare feet. A ridiculous thing to notice when my heart was cracking. “I’m sorry, Rafe.”

“I know you are. Take care of yourself, Talia.”

I walked to the door. “The painting really is beautiful.”

His voice was quiet from behind me. “It’s not supposed to be.”

***

Calder walked in a little after eleven. Unlike the last few nights, he didn’t stumble, and his eyes were clearer than I’d seen in nearly a week. But I could still smell the liquor from where I sat on the couch.

He shut the door and seemed surprised to see me sitting up.

I stood. “Can we talk?”

He gave a short, bitter laugh and tossed his keys on the table with a loud clank. “Sure. Why not? What else could I possibly lose?”

I flinched but managed to not look away. “How about in the kitchen?”

He walked to the table and pulled out a chair. Not that I had expected him to, but it was out of character for him to not pull mine out first. He sat, then leaned back and looked at me.

“Talk.”

I folded my hands in my lap and looked down. “I’m sorry.”

He shook his head. “No.”

I looked up. “No?”