He dragged me to a corner booth and leaned in, his breath hot and sticky with alcohol.
"Faith," he slurred, grabbing my hand and squeezing it too tightly. "I am so sorry."
The words tumbled out of him like spilled water: "I was bad to you. I know I was. I wish I wasn't that man. I wish I could go back and fix it."
He looked pained and heartbroken. His eyes were red-rimmed and glassy, completely unguarded for the first time in a while.
"I love you," he whispered, pressing my hand against his cheek. "God, Faith, I love you, and I promise, I will be better. I swear it."
I stared at him.
Weeks ago, those three words would have shattered me, crumbling all my defenses. They would have made me stay.
Now? They were just noise. They didn't move me. They landed flat, distant, like a radio pla
