He stood up so quickly that the chair nearly toppled over. He caught it before it hit the floor, then rubbed the back of his shoulder and looked everywhere but at me.
“It’s not what you think,” he said, voice shaking.
“I was just… catching up on some freelance work.”
“Freelance work?” I said, crossing my arms. “At two in the morning?
With the door locked?”
He took a step forward, hands open as if he were trying to calm a wild animal. “I can explain.”
“Then do it.”
He opened his mouth, closed it again, then sat back down, the fight leaking out of him. His shoulders dropped as if someone had just taken a weight off them, but not in a relieving way—more like defeat.
“I didn’t want it to be like this,” he said into his hands.
“Like what?” I asked, my voice quieter now, but still full of anger.
Continue reading…
