Hot and Bothered(75)

                “Dammit, Hav,” Mark said, his words hard, bitten off. “She asked if we’re together. It’s not a really hard question.”

                Suellen had apparently given up on Haven. “Are you guys together?” the reporter was asking Mark.

                “We were,” he said.

                Then he walked away.

                * * *

                WE WERE.

                If it had never really been a relationship, officially, did it count as a breakup?

                It felt like a breakup. The coldness of his eyes, the hard set of his jaw. The accusation in his expression.

                That one word, that little were, had hit her like a sucker punch. It was the force, the pain, of realizing that something important—no, something essential, as essential as breath or the beating of her own heart—was gone. She had hesitated, she hadn’t seen what mattered fast enough. She hadn’t stood up for the person, the relationship, that mattered most to her in the world. How could she blame him, when she’d already eroded his faith in her so much that he hadn’t believed she could make any other choice?

                He’d walked away.

                Of course he’d walked away.

                She would have done exactly the same thing.

                She turned her back on Suellen, on the crowd. She’d never done that before. Out the door of the hotel and down the street she ran, catching up to Mark as he tried to flag down a cab.

                There wasn’t a cab to be seen, fortunately. In a city full of cabs, when you were trying to flee, you were almost guaranteed not to be able to hail one. In this case it worked in her favor.

                “Mark.”

                “Don’t bother.” His voice was icy, his posture rigid.

                “I’m sorry. I—” She couldn’t figure out the right words. Everything she could possibly say seemed so painfully inadequate. “I should have—”

                “You know what? I’m glad I know the truth. You’re ashamed of me. Better to know now than later.”

                That caught her off guard. “I’m not ashamed of you, Mark. I was going to tell her the truth.”

                “When? How long was it going to take you? How many other excuses and lies were going to come out of your mouth first?”

                The sick hurt swerved and became a little spark of anger. “I was trying to help you! I didn’t want everything you’d worked for to blow up in your face.”

                “Oh, really? Because that’s sure as hell not what it looked like. Look closely at yourself, Haven. Tell me the truth at least. Can you picture a scenario where you put your arm around me, rest your head on my shoulder, and say, ‘This is my boyfriend, Mark Webster? Burnout, has-been, drunk, brawler, scruffy unshaven guy with shit taste in clothes.’ Me.” He left the edge of the curb and paced as he spat out the words, his brisk, angry steps taking him close enough for her to reach out and touch his sleeve—if she’d wanted to, if he hadn’t been bristling with frustration and self-loathing.

                Every word he said pierced her, each one of those angry, self-abusing descriptors. Suddenly she realized how he saw himself, and by extension how he thought she saw him. How could he still believe that? How could he think that about her, about himself after what they had been through together? “God, Mark. Any other way you can tear yourself down? Because, man, you really do make that sound appealing.”