“Thehospital?”
“Yeah.”I plucked at the waffle-pattern in the blanket. “I was bleeding a lot, and—”
“Wait.You were bleeding? What’d you do? Cut yourself?”
“No,Ali. My stomach isbleedin’.”
Therewas a pause as she absorbed the information. “Your stomach? Why would yourstomachbe bleeding?”
“Youknow I have a bad gut, Ali. You’ve known this the entire time we’ve beentogether, and it’s beengettin’ worse. It startedbleedin’ a couple of days ago, and—”
“JesusChrist, Chad.” A thousand miles away and I could hear her shake her head. Heardher eyes roll. “What did you eat to makethathappen?”
Myteeth gritted for a fraction of a second before I replied, “It’s nothing Iate.I was diagnosed today with Ulcerative Colitis ...” Shit. Saying the words aloudfor the first time felt like a nail, driven straight against my heart. Leavingme winded and tight in my chest. It hurt to breathe, hurt to swallow. I presseda palm to my chest, wondering if this was a heart attack and if I should callfor a nurse. If I should call for Molly, not knowing what Molly would even do.But at least she’d be here. At least she’d be with me. At least—
“So,you’re sick?”
Iblinked and pulled in a quavering breath, wondering how fast my heart couldbeat before it exploded. “Yeah.”
“Howlong is thatgonnalast for?”
“It’schronic, Ali. I’m nevergonnaget rid of it.” Ipressed the heel of my palm to my chest, rubbing and circling and wishing thepressure would go away. Wishing my pulse would slow down.
Shescoffed bitterly. “Oh, so you’re justgonnause thatas a crutch forever now?”
“Wha…” I shook myhead,stillunsure I’d heard her correctly. “What did you just say?”
“Oh,come on, Chad. Youalwaysdo this. You cancel plans with me, becauseyour stomach is bothering you. You say you can’t eat something, because it’llupset your stomach. You don’twannago out, becauseyour stomach is bad. I hear the excuses all thefreakin’time whenever you’re around—which is hardly ever, by the way—and I’m justwondering if this is justgonnabe another one ofthose things.‘CauseI’m telling you right now, Ican’t—”
“Ali.”I twisted my lips and stared with cruel intent toward whatever news channel wasplaying on the TV. My panic subsided with the newness of my drive to end whatshould’ve ended long ago. “We’re fuckin’ done.”
Ihad planned to ease into it. To tell her that my time with her was cherishedand I’d never forget what we had shared together. But what could I honestlycherish about someone who could say that shit toanyonewho’d justreceived news like this, let alone the man she was supposedly in love with?
“Wha-what?” shestammered.
Ishrugged to the newscaster, beginning to breathe evenly. “We’re done.”
“Areyouserious right now?”
“Deadly.”
Amoment of silence passed between us before she asked, “Is this about Molly?”
Yes.“No.”Kind of.
“Bullshit.”
“Youcan believe whatever you want.”
“Good.I will.” Another pause, before she asked, “So, that’s it? You don’t love meanymore?”
“No.I don’t love you anymore.” I wasn’t even sure I’d ever truly been in love withher at all, knowing now what true affection and attraction could feel like. Butshe didn’t need to know that.
“Well,”she said, a bitter edge sharp in her tone, “I haven’t loved you for a longtime.”
“Iunderstand.” I was itching to get off the phone. To be done with this. To beginmy new life without her.
“AndI cheated on you,” she blurted out through her anger, and I know that should’vestung. I know it should’ve pushed me to equal her rage, to tell her I’d almostcheated on her, but what the hell was the point? She was trying to hurt me, andit wasn’t working. I was already hurt. Already sore and aching, just not byher.
