Rhys drives.
I sit in the passenger seat watching the city move past the window and I feel strange, disconnected, like I am observing myself from a slight distance. The woman in this car is the same woman who woke up two hours ago in a warm bed feeling, for the first time in months, like something was going right.
That woman feels very far away right now.
"You do not have to go in," Rhys says. Not pushing either direction, just putting it on the table.
"He asked for me," I say.
"He asked for you," Rhys says carefully, "which does not mean you are obligated to show up."
"I know." I watch a traffic light change. "But I would not be able to live with myself if I did not."
He nods. No argument. He understands the difference between loving someone and being responsible fo
