No, no, no, no, no.

Not again.

I will not do this again.

How dare he come here and look at me that way, then kiss me that way. His lips spoke without words. His caress contained a promise of more, but it’s all a lie.

The door pushes open behind me, but before he can take a step into the room, I spin around with my hands out in front of me.

“Get out. You don’t get to follow me in here. Leave now before I scream bloody murder.”

It’s a promise and not a threat. I will not let him touch me again.

“I just want to talk to you, I…” His words trail off, and his gaze drops to the floor. I take in his defeated stance, the slouch of his shoulders, his hands tucked into his pockets, and I slowly lower my arms. He hasn’t come in here to force himself on me. Not that he’s done that before. I’ve wanted everything we’ve done together, and more. The more is the problem.

When his head lifts to look at me again, I see confusion, shame, guilt and a whole host of other emotions play across his too handsome face. He’s not wearing his glasses today, and I find myself wanting to trace his thick brows with my fingertips and to smooth away the furrows etched into his skin.

“Then talk, Josh. But stay over there. We don’t do so well at communication when we’re too close.”

The corner of his mouth lifts in an attempt at a smile.

“Oh, I don’t know,” he all but whispers. “I think we do better when we’re touching than when we’re not.”

“No,” I bark out harshly despite knowing he’s only trying to lighten the mood between us. “I need the space, so say what you have to say, and then you can go. I’ve only got a few hours to practice some new tracks. So, spit out whatever’s on your mind and then leave.”

He nods once resignedly and takes a small step into the room.

“I said stay over there.”

“I will, but I want to close the door. Unless you want my brother to come around the corner and hear what I have to say, or any other random who may be here today.”

“Fine,” I concede while taking a step back to maintain the safe distance between us. “What do you want, Josh?”

He swallows and then goes to push up the glasses he’s not wearing. He stops with his finger on the bare bridge of his nose, smiles shyly and says, “Contacts. I always forget.”

His nervous reaction is endearing, but I keep my face blank and my mouth silent.

“Okay, well… I have to ask you something, and I was just going to blurt it out because I didn’t want to see you, but I had to know, and then you kissed me and…”

“You kissed me,” I interrupt the ramble of words spewing from his mouth.

“What?”

“You said I kissed you, but you kissed me.”

“You kissed me back.”

I huff and stop myself from rolling my eyes.

“I also slapped you, so unless you want a repeat, please continue.”

He smirks. The prick actually fucking smirks before raising his hand and rubbing at the light red mark across his cheek. The mark I put there.

Then, as if someone switched off the light that briefly flickers in his grey eyes, his face turns to steel.

“Are you clean?”

“Am I what?”

“You heard me. When we fucked, we didn’t use anything. I need to know you’re clean.”

He spits the word fucked at me as if it burns. Like the very thought of being inside my body repulses him.

“Are you?” I retort with a sting in my tone.

“What?”

I channel every ounce of bitch I can muster, all fake and full of bravado, and saunter to the sofa where I sit down like I haven’t a care in the world.

“Clean,” I enunciate clearly. “Are you?”

“Yes,” he hisses through gritted teeth. “Of course I’m fucking clean. What the fuck do you think I am?”

“The same as you think I am, apparently. A slut.”

He blinks, and his cheeks flush, but he loses none of the anger my question has evoked.

“Are you on the pill?”

“Isn’t it a bit late to be asking these questions seeing as you fucked me raw a week ago?”

“I’m asking you now,” he pushes through his clenched jaw, his hands curling into fists at his sides.

I’m not sure if he wants to hurt me or fuck me again. Same thing really, I guess.

“And what if I’m not? What are you going to do about it, Josh?”

“I…” he stutters, not prepared for me to mess with his emotions the way he’s messed with mine.

“I’d hope that you’d sorted it or I’d help you sort it if necessary.”

“Good to know,” I say calmly and in total contrast to the swirling, churning pain engulfing my belly.

“So, are you?”

“No.”

The word hits him at point blank range like a bullet to his chest, and I swear he staggers and almost falls from the impact.

“Fuck.”

I watch him implode, but not for long because despite trying to act like a raging, unemotional bitch and pretending that seeing him in pain doesn’t hurt me, I’m a fake and a liar. It does hurt me. It kills me.

Watching him absorb the consequences of our actions is more painful than accepting them myself.

He slumps against the door, one hand on his chest, the other in his hair.

“I’m barren, Josh. I can’t get pregnant.”

His head lifts, and his eyes find mine. At first, he looks at me like he’s trying to see any lies in my words, and then, his stare turns into one of empathy.

“I’m sorry, Halle. I can’t imagine what that must feel like. I…”

“Don’t feel sorry for me, Josh. I’ve made peace with it.”

He stares at me a beat longer, and I have the ridiculous urge to comfort him. He looks so alone, so lost, so utterly detached from the world that I want to be the one to bring him back into it.

“You’re not her,” he says so quietly I think he’s unaware the words came out of his mouth.

“No, I’m not her.”

He blinks in surprise, unable to understand that I’m answering him because he spoke out loud.

“No one will ever be her, Josh. And I’m sorry for that. But that doesn’t mean you get to use me. So, if you’re done here, I’d like you to leave.”

I’m just as surprised as he is, not at his words or mine, but at how much hearing him say them hurt.

I hurt for him.

I hurt for her.

I hurt for what they lost.

But never, not once, do I hurt for me.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs before turning to leave the room. “I’m not sorry for what we did, only the way we did it.”

His back is to me as he stares out the open door, over towards the balcony and the ocean beyond.

“I’m sorry for the way I left you and for how I’ve treated you since the very first day we met. I don’t have any excuse for being a prick, but I am ashamed of it.”

He turns to look at me over his shoulder and pulls the door fully open. His face is earnest and even more handsome with the truth on his lips.

“But I’m not sorry for coming here today and kissing you again. I’m only sorry that I fucked everything up. You deserve more. More than a broken man who is in love with a ghost.”

Then he’s gone, and I’m alone.

Always alone.

I spot my messenger bag propped up against the wall, and I know that my songbook is inside. With itchy fingers and words swirling around in my head, I reach for it, pull out my precious book and write down everything I wish I could say but don’t have the words to do so. Only in song can I tell the story of my heart.

Your lips tell lies but your eyes betray them

You think I believe, so you say it again.

Sorry is a word with a weight on your shoulders

I’m sorry that I’m here, but she’ll never get older.

With you.