After I was discharged, I moved in with a friend.
Clay came looking for me a few times. He'd stand outside the entrance to my friend's apartment complex, just standing there for hours. I never went down.
At the end of May, I went back to the apartment we'd shared to pack my things. When I opened the door, he was there.
He'd lost a lot of weight. His jaw was covered in stubble, and the skin beneath his eyes was bruised a deep purple-black.
"Lydia." He stepped in front of me. "Let's talk."
"About what?"
"There's nothing between me and her. We're just friends—"
"Just friends." I laughed. "You spent her birthday with her. I was having a miscarriage, and you were by her side. That's what you call 'just friends'?"
He went quiet.
I pushed past him and walked into the bedroom to pack. He trailed behind me like a child who knew he'd done something wrong.
"I know I messed up. I really do. You can hit me, yell at me, anything. Just don't leave, okay?"
I ignored him.
"I cut things off with her. I mean it. She quit yesterday. We'll never talk again. Will you come back? Please?"
I zipped the last piece of clothing into my suitcase, pulled it upright, and turned to face him.