He glanced around like other couples might overhear. “I just don’t see a future. I thought I did. I don’t.”
I laughed, sharp. “You told me to quit my job.” “I didn’t force you.” My hands started shaking. “You begged me to focus. You said you’d support me until I finished.” He rubbed his forehead. “I’m not saying I regret supporting you. I’m saying I can’t do it anymore.”
If he wanted to end things, I couldn’t force him to stick around. “So you waited until Valentine’s Day, in public, to tell me you’re done.” “It’s not like that.” “What is it, then?” He shrugged. “I don’t know. I just don’t feel it.”
Something in me just sort of gave up. If he wanted to end things, I couldn’t force him to stick around. “Can we talk like adults?” “Okay,” I said. He looked relieved. “Okay?” “Okay. Then we’re done.” “Briar—”
I stood, grabbed my coat. “Enjoy your wine.” I couldn’t go home. Home was our apartment. “Can we talk like adults?” he snapped. “Adults don’t pull the rug out from under someone and then demand a calm tone.”
“I said I’m sorry.” “With the same voice you use when the Wi-Fi’s out,” I said, and I walked out.
The cold air hit me like it was trying to wake me up. Outside was a sick joke: hearts in windows, couples everywhere, guys holding flowers like trophies. Two months left. No job. I couldn’t go home. Home was our apartment, my EMT book on the table, the calendar counting down to my final assessment.
So I walked, because standing still felt like drowning. My brain kept doing math. Two months left. No job. Jace paid most of the rent. I had savings, but not “surprise breakup” savings.
Halfway down the block, I heard a wet, awful wheeze from an alley between a bar and a boutique. At first, I thought it was a drunk guy. Then I saw him: a man crumpled near a dumpster, convulsing.
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