“If I stay, you have to mean it this time. Every single day. Not just on the rainy ones.”
“Please,” I say, and my voice cracks on the second syllable. I step onto the porch, the wet wood cold through my socks. I don’t have shoes on. I didn’t think to get shoes. “Tabitha. Just come back inside. We can—we can talk about it. We can talk about anything. Just stay.” tabitha stay with me
“I’m scared,” she whispers. It’s the first honest thing she’s said all night. “If I stay, you have to mean it this time
“Then let me be late,” I say. “Let me be late and awful and whatever else I’ve been. But don’t leave. Don’t get in that car. Because once you do—” My throat closes up. I swallow. “Once you do, you take everything. The good mornings. The burnt toast. The way you hum when you think no one is listening. You take all of it, and I’ll be standing in this doorway for the rest of my life, saying it to no one.” I step onto the porch, the wet wood cold through my socks