I didn’t expect to see him again so soon, not after everything, not after the radio interview, the threats, the bleeding humiliation of my name being passed around like gossip candy, and not after the text I sent him right after the interview aired:
“Don’t come, don’t text. I’ll fix this myself.”
He didn’t reply but then he came anyway.
Noah Bennett stood at my door at exactly 8:37 p.m., dressed in the quiet kind of black that rich men wear when they want to look invisible. His eyes were heavy, like he hadn’t slept. His jaw was unshaven and his body was still. I didn’t say anything at first nor did he.
Then, quietly, he said:
“You shouldn’t have had to fix any of this alone.”
I almost shut the door at him not because I didn’t want him there but because I did so much that it hurt.
