Page 11 of My Veteran Biker

He looks away, toward the window where the light is going golden and heavy. "Because Bloomfield was familiar. The club was here. I knew what I was getting."

What he's not saying is louder than what he is. He stayed in the town where we met, where we were together, where I left him. He bought a house and made it into a place that looks like nobody lives there.

I think about my apartment in Harrisburg. About Ben's books on the shelves and my clothes in the closet and how none of it ever felt like mine even though my name was on the lease.

"I got married," I say.

His hands tighten on the counter. Knuckles going white, jaw setting in a way I recognize.

"When?"

"Four years after I left. His name was Ben. Healthcare administrator."

"Past tense."

"It ended two years ago. No drama, no fight. We just woke up one day and realized we'd been living next to each other instead of with each other."

Knox doesn't say anything. The silence between us feels like a living thing now, pressing against my ribs.

"Do you love him?" he finally asks.

I think about Ben. About the years of being competent partners who knew each other's schedules but not each other's fears. About sex that was pleasant and forgettable. About the relief I felt when he suggested we separate, like I'd been holding my breath for months and someone finally told me I could exhale.

"I thought I did. But I think I just loved not being the only one responsible for everything."

"Yeah."

He knows. I can hear it in that one syllable. He knows exactly what I mean because he's probably been responsible for everything in his life since he was old enough to understand nobody else was going to do it for him.

"Why didn't you come after me?" I ask.

His jaw tightens. He looks at me for a long moment and I can see him deciding whether to answer, weighing truth against self-protection.

"You were right to leave," he says finally.

"That's not an answer."

"It's the only one I've got."

"Bullshit."

The word comes out sharper than I intended. Knox's eyebrows rise slightly, surprise flickering across his face before he controls it.

"You want the truth?" he asks.

"That's why I'm asking."

"I didn't come after you because you were right. I chose the second tour without asking you first. I signed the papers and told you after, and you deserved better than that. You deserved someone who could put you first and I couldn't do it."

"So you just let me go."

"What was I supposed to do? Beg you to stay so I could disappoint you again in six months?"

His voice is rough now, something cracking through the control he usually keeps locked down tight. I can see the muscle in his jaw working, see his fingers pressed hard enough into the counter that the tips are white.

"I loved you," I say.

"I know."