“Did you consider that I might be the type to hold a grudge? Or self-respecting enough to pick up the phone on the fifteenth day and say, ‘Fuck off’?” He nods, like I’m being nothing but reasonable. The quiet, impersonal civility of this conversation is…devastating, actually. “I think part of me hoped you would.” “Why?” It takes him a while to answer. When he does, he’s not looking at me. “Because sometimes I can’t breathe when you’re around.”
