Enemy's Secret

Quiet. Except for the static of the TV. God, Landon smells good.

"I just... I can't get this uncertainty out of my head," I confess, pulling my hands away. "That you'll run out on me when I need you most. I know it's stupid, holding onto what happened before, but I can't seem to let it go, no matter how I try. I can't have that in the back of my head while I'm dealing with all this. I just can't. I'm sorry." Now, I finally dare to look him in the face.

There's an odd look there, one I don't recognize. Not anger. Not sadness. Not fear or nervousness.

"I never told you," he's saying now, "why I dumped you all those years ago."

Something twists in me.

"Don't," I say hoarsely, pulling away.

He catches my hand again. "Just hear me out, Kyra, please."

I rise, suddenly mad. Mad at this whole stupid situation. Mad at him, still making demands of me when he's the last person who should be. "No. No, I won't. You didn't give me any explanation then, why the hell should I stick around and let you make one now? And you didn't just 'dump' me, Landon. You dumped me with no warning, no explanation, at the biggest party of the year in front of all of our closest friends. And then you ghosted me. And now, you show up here and - "

"Hear me out," Landon says, and now I recognize the hurt on his face. "Just - listen to what I have to say, and if you want to kick me out after, then you can, alright?"

"I've heard that offer before."

"And I mean it," he says simply. "Please."

When I don't say anything, he starts talking. "Before I met you, I never told you, but I wasn't doing great in school. Too much partying. It was completely my fault. Dad decided to cut me off. Made me pay my own way - which was fair, considering all his money I had wasted on failed courses. The term I met you, if I'd failed it, I would've had to work years to afford just another semester. I couldn't afford to fail."

He swallows, runs a hand through his light brown hair. He doesn't seem to want to look at me for some reason. Not that I'm dying to lock eyes right now anyway. Screw what he says. Screw his reasons. Nothing can explain away what he did.

"But I couldn't concentrate when I was with you," he continues. "Or when I was without you. It messed up my head. I couldn't study, I couldn't do anything right. I flunked my one course, and knew I couldn't afford to screw up even just one more. And with that jerk friend of yours... it wasn't right, but I ended things because of that. I didn't want to explain or face you because I knew I'd cave. I knew I'd end up confessing it all to you, telling you that you were the girl I saw myself marrying... Then, the next year, when I was finally out of school and I tried to reach out... nothing. You wouldn't take my calls, my texts, nothing."

Finally, Landon looks to me. All I can do is blink back. It takes me a good few seconds to realize that he's waiting for an answer.

"I had you blocked," I say, glaring at him. "I wasn't going to sit around waiting for you to reach out forever."

He shrugs. "I don't blame you."

"Good."

"Good."

We sit there.

So, that's it then. That's the explanation. Did he mean it? Does it matter?

Too much has happened. God knows what I actually think.

"I get it," he's saying now, quietly, emphatically. "I screwed up, OK? I don't plan on making the same mistake twice."

I swallow.

He's waiting for a response. One I don't want to give.

"It might not be up to you," I finally say quietly.

We sit there for another minute. Two. Three. He rises. "So, you want me to go."

I rise. "I don't want you to." I swallow. Don't look at him - don't let the pain in those hazel eyes convince you, sway you. Don't let who this man is now change your mind about what he did when he was a cruel boy. "But I think you should."

"OK," he says, not moving.

"OK," I say.

He goes to the door. It's still raining out there.

"Goodbye," he says, pausing to search for my face. Probably for any signs of wavering, anything he can use to justify staying.

But I keep mine lawyer-cool.

It's not at all how I'm feeling. But it's convincing enough to make him leave when I say, "Goodbye."

I go back to sit on the couch.

I don't pick up my phone. Even though I'll have to see Pamela at some point. Talk things over, if they even can be. I don't want to think of that right now.