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“Are you planning to guard every window that doesn’t have a sensor? Pace up and down my house all night? You’ve got to have something better to do.”
“I was working anyway,” he says with a shrug. “Can you pass me a beer?”
Peering inside, I grab a cold Stella Artois and hand it over. “Drinking on the job, I see.”
“Not usually,” he says twisting off the cap. “But I’m suddenly very thirsty, Ana.”
My body awakens in response to Bryce standing so near and saying my name. The surface of my skin prickles with anticipation.
“Grabbing one, too,” I say as casually as I can. My stomach churns with something other than hunger.
The quiet night and dark kitchen give the moment a thrilling, surreal quality. There’s also the weird blending of my recent dream with this reality. The man who haunts my subconscious is less than two feet away, flesh and muscle and heat.
I’m sweating again. Is it from the warmth of Bryce this close, or am I having early onset hot flashes? Either way, a cold shower is due. For now, I take a generous gulp of beer.
“Wanna sit with me for a while?” he rasps. It’s a simple question that feels like a peace offering.
As if I could ever think about the past with any sense of peace. I was haunted by that night and the proceedings that followed. Not being allowed to do something was a form of torture. I accused him of hating me although the truth is, I hated myself.
But earlier today, I glimpsed the past from his point of view. I want to see more. Know more.
When I sit, I’m conscious of my upper thighs jutting out. “I’m sorry I brought up the past.” I pause, sliding my legs under the table. “It shouldn’t matter anymore.”
Sitting on the chair beside me, he leans over the table, hands clasped and picking on a wet beer label. “Pushing you away is a mistake I’ve lived with for thirteen years, Ana. I’d say it fucking matters.”
The statement startles me. Cautiously, I prompt, “Can I ask you something, Bryce?”
“Anything.”
“You said you were in a dark place. How dark?”
He pauses. His hands flex and unflex. I’m fascinated by the tanned forearms on which a light fuzz of dark-blond hair seems delicate in contrast against rigid, corded muscles.
“It never occurred to me to, um, to hurt myself, if that’s what you’re asking,” he begins. “But depression is a stealthy motherfucker. Simply moving felt impossible. Couldn’t seem to find much reason to move at all.”
“Sergei said your house arrest was conditional. You could still go out for work or have pre-arranged meetings.”
“That’s the thing. I didn’t want to leave. Getting out of bed, out from under the boulder that sat on my chest, felt impossible some days. The house arrest was redundant. I had no intention of having meetings or working. Didn’t want to see anyone who knew me from before.”
“Why? Why would you avoid everyone?” I ask, even as my heart recognizes a painful truth: Bryce might have avoided his friends, but he rejected me. My calls, my letters, my pathetic visits to his parents’ house, all my efforts rebuffed.
Instead of letting me apologize and comfort him, he pushed me away. Over and over again, he rejected me until I couldn’t take it anymore.
Spending time in Moscow for internships through the summer, and then moving there after college graduation, was as much about getting past Bryce as it was chasing a different future for myself. A future where I could forget how much damage I caused and how impotent I was to remedy that damage.
“It was better once I left Columbus.” He offers an answer so vague and insufficient, I can’t help but push. I need to know.
Why did he reject me? Why couldn’t he return to school or find another job in his hometown? Why did he choose Phoenix as the place to rebuild his life? Why did he leave his family behind?
“Your family must have been upset to see you leave.”
Bryce blinks slowly, never once turning away from me. “It was never up to them, Ana. I stayed in Columbus because I wanted to. But it wasn’t possible after. Not for me. Not when everyone was looking at me like a failed project. My uncle left the police force to join a private security team. That provided an opportunity to use my programming experience and AI research, so I jumped at the chance.”
“You didn’t have to move away to jump at that chance. You would have stayed if it wasn’t for what happened.”
He shakes his head.
I bolt to my feet. “Dammit, Bryce, admit it!” I exclaim, aggravated by his lack of a direct answer. “Give me that, if nothing else. You left because of me. You didn’t need to bother. I wasn’t coming back.”
