“Sky—”
“Don’t.” My voice stayed low, which made it deadlier. “Don’t stand there and tell me nothing happened.”
He turned toward the window, and I knew instantly he had made the mistake of moving because distance would not save him now.
“If you stay,” he said, each word dragged out like it cost him blood, “I won’t be able to do what I need to do.”
I stared at his back.
“And what is that?”
“Protect you from my world.” A beat. “From me.”
I laughed once, and it broke halfway out.
Then I nodded.
“Fine,” I said. “Congratulations, Roman. You get to be noble.”
I packed in twenty minutes.
The botany book stayed on the nightstand.
My notes stayed in the library.
The garden stayed where it was, behind the glass, beyond my right to touch.
Cora walked me to the front hall without speaking. At the door, I put a hand on her arm.
“Thank you for the tea.”
She gave one brief nod.
That was all.
The car took me back to Manhattan.
I did not cry until the iron gates vanished in the rearview mirror.
Part 3
Two months is a long time when you are trying not to miss someone who altered the axis of your life.
It is longer when your apartment still looks exactly the same.
My books stayed in their old order. My father kept pretending coffee tasted better than it did. Work resumed its constant low-grade chaos. The city remained loud, indifferent, expensive, alive.
I returned to my life.
That was the official version.
The real version was uglier.
I caught myself looking for Roman everywhere men in dark suits stood too still. I bought roses once, then threw them away because the smell followed me room to room. I sat on my fire escape with a book open and read the same page six times while thinking about a fountain two hours north of Manhattan.
My father noticed.
Of course he did.
