"Yes."
He says the word once, but it echoes a thousand times in my skull. As if my brain needs to hear it again and again. As if once wasn't bad enough. Cruel enough. Strong enough to crush my mind.
It crashes my body all right.
My feet give in first and I find myself losing height. It's only when I hit the cold, hard floor that I realize I'm nowhere near the chairs anymore. It doesn't matter. The floor and wall I'm leaning on are just as good. I can't breathe. No, I can, but every gulp of air hurts so much I wish I could stop breathing altogether.
When I look up, he's gone.
When did he disappear?
Why did he leave?
Why?
Why?
What did I do? What did I say?
I rehash the conversation in my brain, but either my brain is too fuzzy or I'm in complete and utter denial and can't make sense of anything.
I admonished him about Parker. But didn't I then tell him I loved him? Didn't that make everything all right? Did it make everything worse?
I don't know how long I stay like this, crouched against the wall, soaked in cold sweat, but as I stand up, frantically rubbing my arms to chase the cold away; I still can't let go of the question.
Why?
I know the only way to get an answer is to talk to him. Really talk to him. Without having a meltdown. I get out my phone and play with it for a while, then decide against calling him. I want to look him in the eyes when he answers. Cold or warm, harsh or welcoming, however they might be, I want to gaze into them. Perhaps I'm masochistic, perhaps I'm just looking for an excuse to see him one last time, but whatever the reason, it gives me a refreshing sense of strength, concocted perhaps from the ashes of the flaming agony that had me crouched against the wall like a lost child.
I head to the elevator with a determination that startles me. Some, like my mum, would say I have no pride. But I never thought much of pride anyway. It's nothing more than a universally accepted excuse people put forward when they are too terrified to do something. I am terrified too, but I want to know why. With Michael, I knew why. It was humiliating and heartbreaking, but at least I knew. I don't want to deprive myself of that knowledge now. If I'm damned to fall apart, I want to know why.
Jess's Prius is parked right in front of the hospital on the other side of the road. It's only after I start the engine that I realize I have no idea where to find James. It's six in the evening. He could be anywhere. I decide to drive to his apartment. He'll have to show up there eventually.
The ride takes much less time than I hoped it would, but maybe that's a good thing because by the time I slide out of the car, half of my dose of determination has evaporated.
I take a deep breath and push open the doors to his building. Daniel is behind his desk, as usual. He watches me with concern as I approach and it occurs to me that he hasn't forgotten the state I was in the last time I was here.
"Is Mr. Cohen at home?" I ask.
"No, miss. But you are welcome to wait for him in the lobby."
"That'd be great," I say putting on my fakest smile as he shows me to a room I hadn't seen before, at the end of the hall where the elevators are.
The room is surprisingly tiny for such a large building. It looks like a very cozy coffee shop, with small, round tables and metallic armchairs. I drop in one such armchair, the one furthest away from the door, then realize it was a lousy choice. From here, I have a perfect view of the door, and the little determination I have left seems to slip away with every glance to the door. I can't bail now. Daniel has seen me already. I take a few deep breaths and try to remember what brought me here in the first place.
Pain. Raw and slicing, that's what. If only the pain would slip away together with the determination.
But it doesn't. It burns brighter than ever, the flare of pain, spreading like a malicious root, invading every corner of my heart and my mind.
It burns brighter because I am closer now to him, and the memories are inescapable. Memories of passionate kisses and long, happy hours. Memories of his touch on my skin and his laughter in my ear.
The memory of when he first hurt me.
And I know, as Daniel's voice fills me with dread, telling James where I am, that he will hurt me again. But isn't this why I came here? To ask him why he left me. To ask him to hurt me.
I leap to my feet and step behind the chair, leaning on it with my elbows for support. I hold my breath when he enters the room, but the sight of him doesn't bring the crushing blow I was prepared for. Quite the opposite. Possibly because his eyes don't bear the slightest trace of that glacial coldness. There's a deep desperation in them that puzzles me. The question he pops puzzles me even more.
"You drove here by yourself?"