Page 53 of Five

“Come here,” I say, scooting over on the bed to make room for her.

But she hesitates. Because it most definitely will bite.

“Five—”

“Just wait, Rory,” I say, opening my arms wide. “I just want you to sit with me for a second.”

She sighs.

I know that sigh. It’s such a familiar sigh. It’s the sigh she gives me when I leave her behind. It’s me telling her goodbye when I left her for middle school and she had to stay behind at St. Joseph’s for another year. It’s me telling her ‘see ya later’ every summer when I had big important things to do when all she wanted from me was my time. It’s me, six years ago, making decisions for both of us.

This is the sigh of a woman who is weary of my bullshit. And I don’t blame her one bit.

“Please,” I say. “Those answers you want so bad aren’t going anywhere, Ror. Trust me. A five-minute time out from the grand game isn’t gonna matter. It won’t change anything. It won’t kill anyone. It won’t have any consequences.”

“No?” Rory asks, stepping into the room. “Then why am I getting the feeling that five minutes is going to make all the difference in the world right now?”

I say nothing. But in my head I’m begging her to just sit down. Lie next to me. Be still, be quiet, be mine again—

“Cliff has the impression you’re a dangerous guy.”

I inhale. Exhale. Deal.

“Why is that, Five?”

“Did you…” I have to take a deep breath before I can continue. “Did you watch the video I sent you?”

“What video?”

Well, good. If I have to tell her, I’d rather tell her in person. I try to look her in the eyes and find… I can’t. I’m not ready for this moment. But then a small light flicks to life next to me and I realize I’m holding my phone and I’ve accidentally touched the screen. Look at all the little icons. All the pretty icons I’ve created over the years. And then my gaze rests on one in particular.

“Are you going to answer me?” Rory asks, a hint of anger already surfacing.

I press the pad of my finger on the graphic, then randomly find another spot on the screen until—

Rory’s phone buzzes in her hand. I glance up at her just in time to see her brow furrow as she looks at her screen.

And then she smiles.

I sent her a Love Note. I have no fucking clue what that Love Note said because the whole point of the app was for it to be written for you. But I do know that the guy who wrote those love notes wasn’t this guy I am now.

Fifteen-year-old me was a much better guy than twenty-two-year-old me.

“You’re a Class A fucking dork, Five Aston.”

“Guilty,” I say.

Which is the wrong thing to say—because I forgot I was on trial.

“Hey,” she says, looking down at her phone. “What’s this? There’s a video inside the Love Notes…”

She doesn’t need to play it. It starts automatically.

I listen to my recorded self as I try to apologize. Try to make things right but just fuck it up worse.

And I see it all over her face as she processes. She understands what’s happening. She knows this is it. The moment we split apart forever.

“I was nine.”