After the Fall

left in November.”
    “Unless you guys did a long-distance relationship.”
    “Not that it matters. We’re not doing any kind of relationship now.” I rubbed my eyes. “Fuck . . .”
    “Nathan, I think—”
    “Please don’t say I told you so. I get it. You were right. I got in over my head with Ryan.”
    “That wasn’t what I was going to say.” He squeezed my shoulder. “But you’ve been a wreck for a week, so maybe you should talk to him. See if there’s any way to fix this.”
    I shook my head. “He didn’t want to hear why I was ending things. I don’t think he’ll want to hear why I think I fucked up.”
    “Maybe he will, maybe he won’t.” Brad’s hand was heavy on my shoulder. “But I think he means way too much to you to just wallow in this and hope it all goes away. It’s not going to.”
    I kept my gaze down.
    Brad drew his hand back. “You remember what it was like when things ended with Steve?”
    I groaned. “God. Do I ever. Cheating asshole . . .”
    “And how did it feel when you left Brent?”
    “It was a relief. He was an asshole, and it was long overdue.”
    “But you were still angry.”
    “Of course I was. I wasted a year of my life with that fuckwit.”
    Brad nodded slowly. “Right. So when Steve left, you were angry and hurt, and you never wanted to see his idiot ass again. When Brent left, you felt like you’d gotten your life back.” Brad reached over and put a hand on my arm. “How do you feel now?”
    My shoulders sank. As an ache rose in my throat, my vision blurred.
    And that was the moment I knew I’d really fucked up. That letting Ryan go—no, kicking him to the curb—had been a huge mistake. Because right then, I did what I hadn’t done when Steve and Brent exited stage left: I cried.
    I couldn’t even tell myself it was simply the pent-up frustration from being dependent and unable to do the simplest tasks on my own for three long months. No, that had pissed me off, but this hurt. Straight to the bone.
    Brad put his arms around me. “I know it hurts. I could see it the second you walked in.”
    I wiped my eyes but couldn’t quite bring myself to speak.
    “Give him a call.” Brad let me go but kept a hand on my shoulder. “Tell him you made a mistake, and apologize.”
    “And if he doesn’t want to hear from me?”
    “You can’t force him,” Brad admitted softly. “But nothing’s going to happen unless you at least give it a try. You fell hard for this guy in spite of trying your damnedest not to. That means whatever there was between you two, it’s worth the effort and the risk to save it.”
    I wiped my eyes again. “Okay. I’ll talk to him.”
    “That’s all you can do.” Brad hugged me again, a little tighter this time. “Good luck.”
    “Thanks. You too.”
    “Thanks. We’ll probably need it.”
    “So will I.”

For the hundredth time, I pulled up Ryan on my phone and let my thumb hover over the Send button.
    And for the hundredth time, I chickened out.
    Fear kept me off the phone. All I heard over and over was Brad saying, “You can’t force him,” and I was scared to death of the click and the silence on the other end of the line. I was terrified to hear Ryan push me away, even if I totally deserved it.
    After three days, though, I couldn’t take it anymore.
    Fuck pride. Fuck fear. There was no way this situation was changing unless I changed it, because Ryan sure as hell wasn’t going to magically appear on my doorstep to beg me to come back, and sitting here pitying myself wasn’t doing anybody any good.
    Before I could talk myself out of it, I grabbed my keys and left the apartment. I couldn’t call. It would have been too easy for one or both of us to hang up if things got heated. He could ignore—or block—my number. Besides, some things couldn’t be dealt with over the phone. I needed him to see me look him in the eyes and tell him I was sorry and how I felt about him.
    The drive from my place to his seemed to drag on for hours. Several times, I considered turning around—what was the point of hashing all this out again?—but made myself keep going. With my heart in my throat, I pulled up to Ryan’s apartment building and parked in a guest spot.
    His truck was out front. That was promising.
    I took a deep breath before getting out of the car. On the way up the walk, I almost turned back. Twice. The short walkway—one of the perks of going to his place back when I’d been unable to walk very