Hearing himself use the past tense, Han shuddered, like a man in the grip of a fever. He got up and began pacing back and forth, back and forth. Moving seemed to be the only thing that could help him bear this.
Waves of anger and frustration alternated with moments of grief so profound that he thought it might be easier to go mad.
She lied. Never loved me. Rich girl, stuck-up, just having a fling .
. .
used me to escape, used me till she got bored. I hate her…
Han groaned aloud, shaking his head. No I don’t. I love her. How could she do this to me? She said she loved me. Liar! Liar? No . .
. she meant it.
Face it, Han, she’s been suffering, you know it. Bria was troubled, in pain…
Yes, she’d been in pain. Han remembered all those nights he’d found her sobbing, and had held her, tried to comfort her. Baby … why?
I tried so hard to help. You shouldn’t be alone. You should have stayed. We’d have worked it out…
He was terrified that her addiction might send her running back to Ylesia.
Han had no illusions about Teroenza’s reaction if she did. The t’landa Til had no capacity to feel pity or to be merciful. The High Priest would order Bria killed if he ever laid eyes on her again.
Han stared dazedly around the squalid little room. Had it only been last night that they’d been here, in each other’s arms? Bria had held him tightly, fiercely. Now Han realized the reason for her passion.
She’d known she was holding him for the last time …
He shook his head. How could things change so irrevocably in just a few hours?
Turn time back; some childish part of his mind said. Make it be THEN, not NOW. I don’t like NOW. I want it to be THEN…
But of course that was stupid. Han caught his breath, and the sound was ragged, filled with pain. Almost a sob.
Suddenly he couldn’t stand being here, seeing this dreadful little room, any longer. Stuffing his few belongings into his small bag, Han distributed handfuls of credit vouchers into his inside pockets, against his skin. Then he put on his ancient jacket and stuffed the blaster into the front of it.
He walked out, down the hall, past the sleazy-looking woman at the desk.
And kept walking …
All day he walked, moving like a droid through the unsavory crowds of this area, which was one of the “borderline” red-light districts that intersected with one of the nonhuman enclaves. He did not eat, could not face the idea of food.
He was always conscious of the stolen blaster in the front of his jacket.
With part of his mind, Han rather hoped that someone would try to rob him. That would give him an excuse to lash out, to maim or kill—he wanted to destroy something. Or someone.
But nobody bothered him. Perhaps there was some aura he projected, some body language that warned others to keep “hands off.”
His mind kept playing tug-of-war with his heart. He went over and over everything they’d ever said and done. Had he done something wrong?
Was Bria a lovely, troubled, but decent gift fighting a deadly addiction? Or was she a spoiled, callous rich kid who’d been playing a cruel game? Had she ever really loved him?
At some point Han found himself on a street corner between two massive stone piles of rubble. In his hands was Bria’s flimsy, and he was trying to read it by the flickering light of a brothel’s sign. Han blinked. Must be raining… His face was wet …
He looked up at the sky, but of course, there was no sky, only a rooftop, high above. He held out a hand, palm up. No rain.
Folding the letter, Han put it away carefully. He resisted the momentary urge to shred it, or blast it into cinders. Something told him he’d regret it if he did.
Whatever she was, she’s GONE, he decided, straightening his shoulders.
She’s not coming back, and I’ve gotta pull myself together. First thing tomorrow, I go looking for Nici the Specialist at The Glow Spider…
Han realized it was now late at night. He’d been wandering the streets for twelve or fifteen hours. Fortunately, in this district, some places never slept. The Corellian realized that he needed both food and sleep—he was so empty and exhausted that his head spun.
He began walking slowly back the way he’d come, realizing that every step felt as though he were treading on burning sand. His soles were abraded and blistered, and he limped.
The pain in his feet was a welcome distraction.
From now on, it’s just me, Han Solo, he thought, stopping and peering up at the night sky, barely visible at the top of an airshaft. One star—or was it a space station?—winked against the blackness. Han’s mental declaration had the conviction of a sworn oath. Nobody else. I don’t care about anybody else. Nobody gets close, from now on. I don’t care how pretty she is, how smart, or how sweet. No friend, no lover … nobody’s worth this kind of pain. From now on, it’s just me … Solo. With one part of his mind, he realized the grim irony of his inadvertent play on words, and he chuckled hollowly. From now on, his name was him. His name had come to stand for what he was, what was inside him.