Page 372 of Face Off

“The first was angry.”

“They usually are.”

“The second sounded like a fucking therapist.”

“Burn that one.”

“I did.”

“The third?”

“Too careful.”

“And the fourth?”

I look toward my jacket again. “It sounded like I was already promising her everything.”

Briggs’s expression loses its amusement. “Were you?”

“Maybe.”

“Is that why you didn’t send it?”

“Yes.”

He nods slowly. “What are you going to write now?”

“The truth.”

“That hasn’t always worked out well for either of you.”

“No, but lying nearly killed us.”

Briggs taps the blade of his stick against mine. “Then tell her the truth and let her decide what it does.”

He pushes away before I can answer.

By the time we leave the facility, a hard November rain has settled over Milwaukee. Wind drives it sideways beneath the parking-lot lights, turning the pavement black and reflective while Briggs heads toward a meeting with the goalie staff and I return to my apartment alone.

Charm’s letter rests on the kitchen counter while I shower. It follows me to the stove while I make dinner, then waits beside my glass while I pretend to read a chapter of a novel I have already finished twice.

The words refuse to remain on the page.

Victorian writers understood yearning better than anyone alive today. They could turn a glance across a drawing room into emotional devastation and make the accidental touch of a gloved hand carry enough tension to ruin three generations. Their lovers crossed oceans, endured wars, defied families, and wrote declarations capable of making separation feel like another living thing inside the room.

None of them had to explain fucking their ex-girlfriend’s future friend over the back of a hotel couch.

I close the book.

Charm deserves the truth without cruelty. The details will hurt her, but allowing her imagination to create intimacy that never existed will hurt more. She needs to understand the difference between sex I used to empty myself and everything I gave her because I trusted her enough to remain afterward.

I take out a clean sheet of paper.

Charm,

It has taken me six days to answer because the first response was angry, the second sounded like I had stolen language from a therapist, and the third tried so hard not to frighten you that it became dishonest.

The fourth sounded like a promise neither of us is ready to make.