He knows the rules. He has to say yes before I can leave, but he stays silent, so I repeat, “Are you willing and able to help in case of emergency?” “Stevie.” His tone is laced with desperation. “Are you willing and able to help in case of emergency?” “Can you look at me?” he softly asks, sitting forward. I don’t care that his tone is sad. I have to do my job right now, and he’s not letting me. He’s the one who broke up with me, and here he is, forcing me to stand in front of him. It’s a unique form of torture. “Please look at me,” he begs. “Can you answer the question?”
