It’s not until dark clouds replace the sun, and I’m getting ready for bed that I hear a car door slam shut, followed by another, and then Josh’s voice. Then a sound I’d spent the entire day listening out for. “Daddy!”

I grab the bag I’d brought with me, Tommy’s present wrapped neatly inside it, and I don’t think twice. I run downstairs and open the door, my anticipation building. By the time I’m on the driveway, Josh, his aunt Kim, and Tommy are climbing the stairs to his apartment, Tommy in Kim’s arms. I call Tommy’s name, but it’s only audible in my mind, yet somehow Josh hears it, or at least senses it, because he turns to me, an unjustified fear in his eyes before practically pushing Kim and Tommy into his house. He closes the door behind them, and then he just stands there, one hand balled at his side, the other still on the knob.

I grip Tommy’s present to my chest and watch as Josh finally turns around. With rushed steps, he makes his way down the stairs and stops in front of me. Through a sigh, he says, “What are you doing, Becca?”

I realize I’m still smiling.

I don’t know why I’m smiling.

I guess the second he herded his family into the house and away from me, I froze.

Physically.

Mentally.

Inside.

Outside.

Everything.

Froze.

He takes a step forward, and I take a step back and it’s as if the anger that begins to boil inside me sets free the chills of my frozen state. He’s acting like Tommy has a reason to fear me. Like I’m the one who yelled and cursed at his son’s mother and threw shit from the top of the stairs before trashing the crap out of his own truck. I’m not the danger here. He is.

I regret the thought the second it develops, but I don’t regret the way I feel.

I hate him.

I love him.

I hate that I love him.

I throw the bag at his chest and turn around, but not before I see his eyes drift shut and his jaw tense in anger. He has no right to be angry, but he is, and the tone he uses to hiss my name is proof of that.

I’m one foot away when his hand circles my arm, my name falling from his lips, calmer and quieter than the last. “You can’t do this,” he says.

I gather my courage to face him. “What?” I mouth, harshly tugging out of his hold.

Instantly, the rage in his eyes disappears and is replaced with pity. I look up at his apartment and choke on a sob. I don’t need his pity. I need my best friend.

A single drop of rain lands on my arm, and I stare down at it—a once single bead, now separated by the impact and I compare it to us. I wonder if it weren’t for the circumstances that destroyed us, if Josh and I would still be one, or if life and distance would’ve ruined us anyway.

“I’m sorry, Becs,” Josh says, his hand’s on my arm again, soft and gentle and safe. “Tommy—he can’t know you’re here.”

Swear, I try. I try so damn hard to keep it together, to not let him see the effects of his words, but I can’t. And as my shoulders shake while sob after sob completely drain me, I look up at him and mouth, “Why?”

He releases me quickly and locks his fingers behind his head, and I can see his pain, see his struggle to say what he says next. “Tommy asks about you every day, Becca. When things didn’t work out between us, it didn’t just ruin me, it hurt him, too.” He pauses a moment as he looks down at me, and I wonder if he can see the weight of his words pushing me down, making me feel beneath him. “He sleeps with a damn camera every night expecting you to come home, come back in our lives as if nothing has changed. He thinks you’re out there, photographing these adventures, and he looks at me with those eyes… you know the ones… and I don’t have the heart to tell him otherwise. But seeing you here and—”

I cover my face with my hands to hide my cries, unwilling to show him my weakness. It’s pouring now, rain beating down on us. My tears, my pain, my fears getting lost with it.

“I’m sorry, Becca,” he says, and I can hear the reflection of my ache in his words. I keep my eyes closed when I feel him step forward, his fingers gentle as they run up my arm. “I don’t say this to hurt you. Look at me. Please.” There’s an urgency in his words now, so strong it overpowers the hurt.

After dropping my hands, I glance up at him. And the second I do I regret it, because he’s already looking at me, right into my eyes, and I feel the same thing I felt the first time he smiled at me. Calm. But he’s not smiling now. And there’s no reason for my calm. Especially when he wraps me in his strong, wet arms—arms that somehow warm my body, my heart. “I’m sorry,” he whispers in my ear. “I can’t seem to stop hurting you. I don’t want this. You have to forgive me, Becs.”