Oh, no. Oh, Ashley, no. No, no, this is not it, this is not about that at all. Oh, god.

But she is gone already, a quick blur, a door slammed open. No.

It replays in front of my eyes, then, all of it – how me pulling back time after time must have looked to her; how I almost flinch at her every touch because it burns, it singes me with desire, but she could have read it as a sign of distaste; my reaction now – the frowns, the jaw-clenching, the terseness – Spencer’s disgust with Ashley’s whoring past. Not Spencer’s insecurity, Spencer’s selfish jealousy.

My knees are so weak when I stand up, weak enough I worry they will hold me up. They must. I run out after her, blindly, push open the door, stand blinded by the dying day.

I look around, I can’t see her, the parking lot is nearly empty and – there – her car is still there. I squint, take a step, try to see inside, I stop. The car is empty, no one in the driver’s seat. I can feel it clawing up my throat now, the desperation, I look around at the emptiness, the stillness of the lot around me, where- and then it catches my eye, a movement by the tire, at the other side of the car. I walk to the car, around it, slowly, not wanting to startle, and there she is, sitting down on the asphalt, leaning against the front tire, feet tucked in close, hands on knees, head hung low.

How did we get here, to the edge of this hurt, so fast, without thinking? I look at her then, that profile fit for a Roman coin, the glittering eyes. I love her. I have never said the words to her. She loves me, too, undeniably. She doesn’t have to say it. She has said it every day for weeks now, without uttering a sound. Every look she gives me, each lingering touch – love. Every kiss we share, every moment we steal for ourselves and guard with caresses, with sighs – love. Words are not necessary when we speak to each other.