When she finally spoke, she asked how long. I could have softened the answer, but I was beginning to understand how much damage I had already done with carefully chosen words. “About two years,” I said, and she stood so quickly the stool scraped across the floor. Then she walked to the end of my kitchen, turned around, and looked at me like I had just confessed to secretly owning the building.
“Two years, Ethan?” she said, pressing both palms against her face. “You helped me pick an outfit for the Evan date.” I admitted that I had told her the blue dress looked better, and she dropped her hands to stare at me again. I nearly made a joke about recommending a burlap sack, but stopped when I saw that underneath her astonishment was something I hadn’t earned the right to make light of.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” she asked. I told her about the rule, then made myself say the part the rule had been hiding: losing her frightened me more than wanting her hurt. Maya grew still, her expression changing in a way I couldn’t read. I took one cautious step closer and told her she didn’t owe me an answer just because I had finally managed to give her one.
