All of the lights land on you

The rest of the world fades from view

And all of the love I see

Please, please say you feel it too

And all of the noise I hear inside

Restless and loud, unspoken and wild

And all that you need to say

To make it all go away

Is that you feel the same way too

And I know the scariest part is letting go

'Cause love is a ghost you can't control

I promise you the truth can't hurt us now

So let the words slip out of your mouth

"the words", Christina Perri

December 24, 2020

Sometimes Rebecca misses New York, especially around the holidays. Since she moved to West Covina, December has never felt quite right. No amount of decorative Christmas lights on palm trees can negate the fact that it's seventy degrees with not a snowflake in sight.

It's Christmas Eve and Rebecca has dutifully donned her gay apparel of a tacky red sweater depicting a knitted Santa riding a T-Rex like a bucking horse. She's even listening to a curated playlist of Christmas songs to get in the festive spirit as she drives to The Broken Yolk Cafe. She's meeting Heather, Valencia, and Paula for a holiday-themed brunch before they each spend the holidays with their respective families. With Valencia living in New York and Heather in El Segundo, it's rare that the four of them are able to get together like this.

She's getting misty over Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas when she drives past Open Mike's. The titular Mike himself must be inside because she sees his unmistakable fire-engine-red Mustang parked out front. Maybe it's the sentimental music or perhaps her holiday rose-colored glasses that makes her take a sharp turn into the parking lot. The holidays are the season of giving, of charity, of grovelling to get her gig back. She can be a few minutes late for brunch.

As soon as she steps through the front doors, the memories come flooding back. The place is empty so it's easy to superimpose the image of her friends sitting at open tables while she sings her heart out. An overwhelming sense of rightness washes over her. This is where she's meant to be. Surely she can convince Mike to let her come back. When she was a lawyer, she persuaded people in matters much more dire (and expensive) than this. This should be a piece of cake.

A glow of fluorescent lighting emits from a doorway off the main room. Music with a heavy beat thumps in the background, which gets louder and louder as she approaches the door. Her heart races as nerves set in, swelling up like a balloon inside her. Calming herself before she crosses the threshold, she gently reminds herself that the worst thing that could happen is he could say no. And that's not so bad. She would be in the same place as she finds herself now, no worse.

"Hiii there," she says awkwardly as she fills the space in the doorframe.

Mike looks up from a laptop and it takes him a few seconds to register who is standing in his office. He clicks at his keyboard and the music dampens in volume.

"Oh. Rebecca," he says, surprised. He looks her up and down and remarks, "Interesting sweater."

The fact that he called her Rebecca – not Regina or Rachel or what's-her-name – gives her a glimmer of hope.

She laughs nervously. "Thank you. Um, I know I'm probably the last person you expected to see, but I was hoping that in the spirit of the season – you know, of giving and goodwill toward men – that maybe you would consider letting me come back." Her voice trails high at the end, making her sound timid, unsure of herself.

The way he raises his eyebrows, surprised, tells her that this is not what he was expecting her to say.

"Oh," he says, "I see."

She cannot stand the contemplative silence that follows, so she starts to babble, "I will play by your rules entirely. No more self-indulgent speeches. No more grand gestures. I will get up on stage, sing, and leave. I won't cause you problems anymore. I promise." She clasps her hands together. "Please. Please. One human to another. Have mercy on me. I beg you."

This is rock bottom. She hates how ingratiating she sounds, but she can't help it. This is how much it means to her. She will eat crow. She will beg. She will do whatever he wants her to do.

He hums and leans back in his chair, as if considering this proposition. Then, he simply says, "No."

"No?" she repeats, unclasping her prayer hands. "That's it? Just, no?"

He shrugs and goes back to reading something on his laptop. His nonchalance throws her for a loop. She expected that he could still harbor some anger toward her, but his utter apathy is somehow worse.

Time to try a different tactic: appeal to his entrepreneurial side. Clearing her throat, she says, "I think you would agree that I bring in more business to your fine establishment. Whenever I perform, I bring all my friends. At the very least they're buying the drink minimum, which puts money in your pocket."

He exhales sharply, annoyed. "Open mic night is one night of the month. It's not even my most profitable event. Karaoke night – hell, even Monday night trivia – brings in way more money. And the only one of your little friends that tips well is your tall boyfriend. And listen, doll, you have been rude to me since day one. So, I'm sorry, but the answer is no."

That's it. The worst has happened. He said no. She can tell by the conviction in his eyes that she's lost and there's no convincing him. It hurts, but she's no worse off than before. At least she can sleep at night knowing that she tried her best.

She gives him a sad nod, acknowledging her defeat, and turns to leave his office.

"Plus, I don't even like your music," he says as an aside as she's about to cross the threshold.

She stops in her tracks and swivels around to face him. "What?"

"Not my cup of tea," he adds dismissively, like they're having a casual conversation about the weather.

"Listen," she starts, stomping back up to his desk, "I know I'm not Joni Mitchell or anything, but I am no worse than most of the other acts I see here."

Mike crosses his arms with a smug expression on his face. It infuriates her that she gave herself away, letting him know how solidly he has the upper hand in this situation.

Now that she's started her diatribe she can't stop. "And you should have seen where I started! I had zero experience. I've taken piano lessons and voice lessons and practiced until my voice was hoarse and my fingers ached. I've read books about lyric writing and music theory. I have worked my ass off for this."

Mike uncrosses his arms and says, "And all of that is great. You stuck with it. I admire that about you. It's brave."

"Yuck," she scoffs, crinkling her nose in disgust.

Is he trying to get under her skin or does his douchebaggery come naturally? Intended or not, his condescension causes her temper to flare, and in that moment she realizes that Mike saying no wasn't the worst that could happen after all. This is much, much worse.

He goes on, "If I loved your music or if I thought you were super talented, maybe – MAYBE – I would overlook this petty thing between us. But I don't. So, sorry kid."

Almost shouting, she replies, "You could have just said no you know!"

Mike smirks and leans back casually in his chair. "Listen. If you don't want to hear the brutal truth, then you're in the wrong business. Not everyone is going to like your stuff. It's not personal."

She wants nothing more than to slap that stupid smirk off his face. Not personal. If only his tiny brain could comprehend how deeply personal all of this is for her. It's nothing but personal. Shouldn't all music be personal?

If she stays one second longer, she'll do or say something she regrets.

"Cool. Cool. Well, thanks for that super helpful feedback. I will be on my way. Goodbye."

She storms out of Open Mike's in a fury. After flopping down in a huff into the driver's seat of her car, she bangs the heels of her hands against the steering wheel.

Yes, Mike is only one person. And, yes, he is allowed to have his own music preferences. Logically, she knows this. It makes sense. So then why does it still hurt so badly to hear?

It's not like she was asking for his dumb opinion anyway. She has been attending these open mic nights for almost a year and she knows that there are acts that are empirically, undoubtedly worse than hers. Yet, Mike allows them to continue to perform. He applauds them, even.

She regrets not learning his name. She regrets not kissing up to him. She regrets it all. He is the literal gatekeeper to this venue and the one person she should not have crossed. She begged, grovelled at his feet, served her heart up on a platter. How humiliating.

Late or not, her friends are still expecting her at brunch. Swallowing her wounded pride, she throws the car into gear. At least her friends will listen to her, validate her, build her up. The sinister self-sabotaging voice in her head wonders: What if her friends are only humoring her? What if they think her music is garbage? What if they only support her out of obligation? What if her songs are terrible and everyone is too afraid to tell her the truth?

When she arrives at The Broken Yolk Cafe, the girls are already seated at a table so she has a moment to gawk at the elegant decor. She surmises quickly that she misunderstood what holiday-themed brunch meant. Apparently it means mimosas with cranberries, chic red velvet draperies, and tasteful wreaths on the wall. It doesn't mean an explosion of cheer all over a bright red sweater. As if one humiliation wasn't enough, the surroundings make her feel grossly out-of-place. Of course the other girls got the memo, with Valencia in a smart cranberry red blazer and Heather in a holly-green crop top. Even Paula, known for her unique accessories, wears only a simple gold necklace over her red cardigan. Correctly reading Rebecca's sullen mood, none of her friends comment on her sweater.

Valencia immediately orders a round of mimosas and launches into an animated recounting of a party she and Beth threw for a prominent fashion designer in New York. While Heather and Paula nod and smile and ask follow-up questions, Rebecca stares off into the middle distance, her stomach roiling. The dull cacophony of sounds in the restaurant – dozens of conversations, clinking silverware, and music turned up a little too loud – swirl around her until she aches behind her eyes.

"Cookie?" Paula says to get Rebecca's attention. When she looks up, two confused faces and a cross-armed Valencia stare back at her. The mimosas have already been delivered.

"Sorry, what?"

"Is something wrong?" Paula asks. "You've been staring into space. You know, for longer than usual."

Heather nods emphatically in agreement as she munches on a piece of croissant.

"It's nothing," Rebecca says, straightening up. "You were saying something about some famous dancer?"

"A designer," Valencia corrects, mildly irritated that Rebecca has ignored her entire story. "Can we please skip to the part where you just tell us what's wrong?"

Rebecca traces her finger around the stem of the champagne flute. "It's just . . . you would all tell me if my songs were bad, right?"

The women exchange glances, silently communicating something that sets Rebecca on edge.

Paula is the first to speak. "Your songs aren't bad, sweetie. Why would you ever think that?"

"I wouldn't tell you," Heather interjects, in her brutally honest deadpan, "but I do like your songs, so thankfully I don't have to lie. But, then again, how do you know that isn't a lie?"

"Your songs are great," Valencia says, her expression softened, "and how much you love to write them makes them even better. We love them."

"Sorry. I'm not trying to be a downer. Sometimes I wonder if the whole songwriting thing was stupid. I mean, who decides to start songwriting with zero experience at the age of thirty-one? So dumb."

"It is not dumb," Paula insists, resting her hand on Rebecca's forearm. Heather and Valencia nod their heads in agreement with Paula.

"Why don't you tell us about what you've been writing?" Valencia offers.

"That's just it. I haven't been writing anything. After I got kicked out, I haven't been able to write anything new." Rebecca waves both her hands in front of her, shaking off the pitying looks from around the table. "Let's talk about something else. Anything else. Please. Heather, how's your hot tub?"

"Oh, she's swaddled in her cover at home. How's Mr. Take-a-Sucker-Punch-for-you? Give me something juicy, I'm an old married lady now."

"Yeah, how is that going?" Valencia asks. "Wait, did he say something bad about your songwriting? I will break both of his legs if he did."

"No, no," Rebecca says with a soft laugh, "not at all. It's going really well, actually. Surprisingly well, you know, for me." The girls laugh politely and she takes a sip of her mimosa. "I can't believe we haven't all been together since that night."

"Kudos again on the big grand gesture," Heather says. "Very 10 Things I Hate About You except, like, less marching band. I dig it."

Valencia's lips purse and Rebecca recognizes that look. She has something to say, something Rebecca won't want to hear, but she's holding it back.

"Well, I'll say it if no one else is," Valencia says. "Aren't you worried about his . . . history?" She leans in and whispers the last word conspiratorially.

"Huh?"

"The cheating! When you two were canoodling he lied to his girlfriend for months. How do you know he's not going to do the same to you?"

"V," Paula interrupts, a warning in her voice, "she's clearly having a tough day. Let's ease up. And, for what it's worth, I have seen a huge change in him since those days."

"This is coming from a place of love, I promise," Valencia says, resting her hand over her heart. "If he makes you happy, then that's great. I'm happy for you. I just don't want to see you get hurt again."

"Wow, I can't believe you're piling on right now," Rebecca says defensively. "I came here needing the support of my friends and then you attack me and my romantic relationship, which, for once in my life, is not a complete and utter shit show."

Rebecca hooks her purse over her shoulder and stands up.

"No, no, sweetie, sit down. Valencia is a little protective, that's all," Paula pleads.

"I think I should go," Rebecca says, fishing through her purse for what little cash she has. She puts ten dollars on the table and then says, "Merry Christmas," before making a hurried exit.

She's calling Nathaniel before she even reaches her car in the parking lot. The first time it goes to voicemail. The second time he answers.

"Hey."

"Hi, where are you?" Rebecca blurts out, foregoing any pleasantries.

"Where am I?" he repeats with a laugh. "Why?"

She is in no mood to be questioned and it makes his laughter feel like mockery.

"I just want to know where you are."

The pause before he speaks is long. Too long. She hears his keys jingling in the background and then the door shut. He's going somewhere. He's leaving his apartment. Where is he going?

"I . . . thought I told you," he finally says. "How was brunch with the girls?"

Something is off. His voice is weird. And he didn't answer the question.

Maybe he did already tell her. It's not unusual for her to tune people out. She missed Valencia's entire anecdote about her party because she couldn't stop thinking about her confrontation with Mike. That must be it.

"Hello?" he asks after she doesn't speak for an uncomfortable period of time.

"I'm still here," she says.

Then, it hits her. The very plausible, rational explanation for where he's going. Of course. She clears her throat and says, "It's Christmas Eve," with a forced laugh, "so obviously you're going to see your parents."

"Right. Exactly. Hey, are you OK? Your voice sounds strange."

She is not OK. She wants him to drop what he's doing and hold her and tell her her music is brilliant and Mike is a fool for kicking her out. The craving for validation is all-consuming.

"I'm fine," she lies. "Can I see you when you get back?"

"Don't you see Dr. Akopian this afternoon? Or is she off for the holiday?"

Damn it, he's right. She completely forgot.

"No, you're right. It's today. Maybe after that then."

"Call me when you're finished."

"OK. I love you," she says, hopelessly desperate for the words.

After a beat he says, "You too."

And just as quickly as she gained her composure, she loses it again. What was that? Hesitation? How long was that pause? Two second? Five seconds? Whatever it was, it was too long. He didn't say I love you too. He said You too. What does that mean? When was the last time he said I love you first? She bites her lip, thinking back on the past few months, memories clicking through her head like a slide projector.

The call ends and she's left staring at the phone in her hand. She wants to sob. Maybe she should have been honest. The last thing she wants is to be the clingy girlfriend who needs constant affirmation. Mona was probably never like that. Mona was the picture of perfection. Not needy. Not insecure. Not crazy.

"Maybe I'll follow him," she says out loud to her reflection in the windshield of the car. "If I drive fast I can stake-out the on-ramp to the freeway. If he's taking the 10, I'll know he's going to LA. It'll take me fifteen minutes, tops. Easy peasy. A small price to pay for peace of mind."

She looks up at the rearview mirror, catching the gaze of her own eyes there. "No, no, no," she mutters. A rebuttal to an invisible arguer. "No, I cannot do that because that would be crazy and I am not crazy and he is not cheating on me. We've already been down this road. He took me there, for god's sake! I saw his mother with my own eyes!"

She pulls the seatbelt across her chest and starts her car, as if to tell herself that the decision has been made. "This is silly," she says. "Time to go home and drown my rejection in a pint of Ben & Jerry's."

At that precise moment, a familiar black Tesla drives by the restaurant.

Her eyes go saucer-wide. "What? No. It can't be."

But it is. Nathaniel is in the driver's seat, tapping his thumbs on the steering wheel.

Scrambling to put the car in gear, she says, frantic now, "This is a sign. This is a sign. If this isn't a sign, I don't know what is. He is going the opposite direction of the 10. I have to follow him. I have to. I have no choice."

As she drives a few car lengths behind him, she continues to argue with herself. Her stream-of-consciousness is like Smeagol and Gollum, two sides of herself arguing back and forth. The Rebecca in the windshield versus the Rebecca in the rearview mirror. Good Rebecca versus Bad Rebecca.

"Maybe he's running an errand before he turns around and hops on the 10. Maybe he has to pick up some dry cleaning or grab a file from the office or . . . No, no, no, that doesn't make sense. Why do it now? It's Christmas Eve. The office isn't even open. Nothing about this makes sense. He must be cheating. Valencia was right. Once a cheater, always a cheater. God, how could I be so stupid?!" She bangs both her hands on the steering wheel in frustration.

Once she's a few miles outside of West Covina, definitely not in or even en route to Los Angeles, Nathaniel's car pulls off the road into the parking lot of a run down strip mall. He parks in front of a quaint coffee shop with a neon sign that flashes OPEN.

Flo's Coffee Shop is not a place she's ever been, and she's surprised Nathaniel would even visit this sketchy part of town. But maybe that's the point. No one would ever suspect him to be here. No one would think to find him here unless he was followed.

Rebecca parks on the other side of the street and switches off the ignition, slumping down in her seat so only her eyeballs peer above the frame of the window.

Nathaniel exits the car, a manilla envelope tucked under his arm. He looks over his shoulder and Rebecca ducks.

"Oh my god," Rebecca whispers to herself. "That lying, cheating son of a bitch."

After a few seconds Rebecca peeks out the window again. As much as her stomach is twisted up in knots, she can't tear her eyes away. She's determined to find out the truth, no matter how much it pains her.

A pale blue hatchback pulls into the spot next to Nathaniel. He smiles and gives the car a little wave. A woman exits the car. It's hard to make out her features from a distance, but she appears to be young and petite with long blonde hair.

Rebecca feels ill. She was right. He's not going to visit his parents. It was all a lie.

As the woman approaches him, Nathaniel starts to speak. He pulls the envelope out from under his arm and gestures with it as he talks.

Rebecca sighs. "It's a client," she says, filled with relief. "It's just a client. He needed to give her some paperwork and the office is closed on Christmas Eve. That's it. That's all it is."

She sits up in her seat, satisfied, and prepares to drive away. Before she can turn on the ignition, she wonders aloud, "But why the secrecy? Why lie about going to LA? Why meet on the outskirts of town and not at the office? He's not dressed like he's going to see a client."

The blonde woman covers her mouth with her hand. She's surprised or happy about whatever Nathaniel has told her. And that's when she hugs him. Tight. And Nathaniel hugs back, a huge smile on his face.

Rebecca quickly sinks back into her seat to continue her surveillance, a sense of dread pulling her down.

After they hug for a few seconds, the woman pulls away and the unthinkable happens.

He kisses her. On. The. Cheek.

Rebecca gasps. This she cannot handle. That is their thing. How many times had he kissed her on the cheek, lingering, making her heart race. How dare he.

Now the woman is grabbing Nathaniel's forearm and talking excitedly, but Rebecca cannot bear to watch any longer. She starts the car and slams on the pedal to speed away.

"No, no, no," she whines as she drives. She has no plan, no destination. All she knows is she needs to get far away from this coffee shop where Nathaniel is hugging and kissing some skinny blonde woman who definitely isn't Rebecca.

She's so angry and shocked that she can't even cry. She just drives and drives. Autopilot takes over and, before long, she's in front of Nathaniel's apartment with barely any recollection of how she got there.

Her fury taking over, she propels herself out of the car and rides the elevator up to Nathaniel's apartment. The mirrored wall of the elevator reminds her that she's wearing a ridiculous, gaudy, over-the-top holiday sweater. What a juxtaposition from the bottomless pit of despair she feels on the inside. Her eyes look gaunt in the drab lighting. The opposite of jolly.

She storms up to Nathaniel's apartment door and wiggles the doorknob. Of course it's locked. She shuffles through her purse and finds a credit card. Hoping she still has the magic touch, she carefully slides it into the crack of the door and wiggles it back and forth until she hears the lock catch.

"Works every time," she says to herself, a criminal mastermind.

Once she's inside the apartment, she realizes she still has no clear plan of action. Looking around at all his belongings makes her heart ache in the worst way.

Burn it. Burn it all. That's her initial instinct.

If she could burn one or two of his shirts, maybe a book or two, that would certainly send a message. Light arson. It wouldn't hurt anyone or burn the building down.

"No," she says, pinching the bridge of her nose. "No, I can't do that. I've been down that road before."

With all her pent up adrenaline and hurt, though, she yearns for some kind of release. She treads into his bedroom, looking around for . . . she's not sure what exactly. His sheets are like a siren's song, begging her to slip beneath them and sleep. She resists. His smell will only cause more pain, reminding her of everything she's losing.

She remembers then. The safe. He must have some valuable objects there. If he's truly the heartless, cheating, narcissistic, corporate snob she thinks he is, hitting his wallet is the best way to truly hurt him.

The safe is in his closet, on a shelf above his dress shirts. She hikes herself up on her tiptoes and is able to slide it off the shelf using her fingertips. It's a little heavier than she expected, but still manageable. She deposits the safe on his bed, and its weight makes it bounce. She squats in front of it, staring at the keypad securing its contents.

To start, she tries combinations of his birth day, month, and year. Usually that does the trick. But not in this case. Of course not. He's smarter than that. She searches her brain for other ideas, but cannot think of any other significant number combinations off-hand.

Remembering how she broke into Josh's phone years ago – an uncomfortable memory that triggers a little warning that, yes, she is definitely backsliding – she tries her own birthday. 0-4-1-8. The safe pops open. That gives her pause, but only momentarily. She's determined not to let sentimentality cloud her mind. He is a lying, cheating bastard, and a four-digit number code doesn't change that.

Inside the safe, there is only one object. The engagement ring encased in a black velvet box. She expected to find much more in that little safe, given his wealth. Yet, this is the only thing he deems worthy of locking away.

She removes the ring box from the safe. This ring is hers anyway, right? That's what he said. This belongs to her.

She opens the box. Seeing the ring, all bold and beautiful, has the same impact as the first time he showed her. Despite herself, the sight takes her breath away. Her stomach flutters. From moment to moment, she vacillates wildly between love and blinding hatred for this man who bought her a gorgeous, once-in-a-lifetime engagement ring on a whim.

Swallowing hard, she takes the ring out of its velvet holder. She studies it, turns it around in her fingers. She's mesmerized by it. For such a small object, it holds a monumental amount of emotional weight. It's a symbol of his love. Yet, it's also a reminder of her rejection. Amidst the mess of the three-date scheme, he found a glimmer of hope to hang onto. He had hopes for a future with her. A for as long as they both shall live kind of future. How stupid she was for believing he could still feel that way.

Maybe she should flush the ring. Her heart's in the toilet, so it makes sense. Or maybe she should pawn it. Pocket the money. No, no. She has to destroy it somehow. This ring is the horcrux of their love. Once it's destroyed, she will feel nothing for him.

As she continues to stare at the ring, contemplating what to do, her chest tightens. The ring is so beautiful she wants to sob. She can't pretend none of their history ever happened. She can't pretend she doesn't love him. A giant knot inside her, stretched to its breaking point, snaps.

She slides the ring on her finger. It catches a bit on her knuckle, but she forces it the rest of the way. Her breath catches.

The front door knob jiggles, the noise jolting her back to the present. Oh god. He's back. Suddenly the reality of the situation sets in. She broke into his apartment like a petty thief. She cracked his private safe and is currently wearing its only contents.

Frantically she tries to yank the ring off her finger, but it won't budget past her knuckle.

"Oh no, oh no, oh fuck," she whimpers, each utterance growing increasingly panicked. Knowing she has only seconds to cover her tracks, she quickly shuts the door of the safe and shoves it back on the shelf in the closet.

The front door swings open and she hears Nathaniel's voice from the entryway. "Hello? Is someone here?"

Operating purely on impulse, she calls, "It's just me!" from the bedroom. She scurries to the door to greet him, like none of this is unusual at all. She forces a smile, hiding her left hand casually behind her back.

"What . . . are you doing in my apartment?" he asks. Taking in her appearance, he smirks at her delightfully tacky Christmas sweater. "Cute," he adds.

"Thanks. There is a very simple explanation for why I'm in your apartment," she says, biding her time.

"OK," he says warily, crossing his arms.

Rebecca slowly walks backwards toward the kitchen, both her hands behind her back as she tries to discreetly jerk the ring off her finger. "You see, after I went to brunch with the girls I thought I want to give Nathaniel a little Christmas Eve surprise."

He furrows his brow skeptically as he follows her, his eyes tracking the movements of her hands. "What's behind your back?"

There's a hint of a grin on his face. He thinks she's playing with him, hiding a gift behind his back. And that would be perfect if she did have said gift and wasn't, in actuality, hiding a stolen possession of unknown, but presumably exorbitant, monetary value.

"Nothing," she snaps. "I came here because I thought you would be gone all day so I could set up my super special surprise." She continues to walk backwards, away from him, but he follows closely, set to pounce.

"Show me your hands," he says, teasing. He still thinks this is a fun game she's playing.

"What? Why?" She runs out of space to escape and her backside bumps into the kitchen counter.

He must read the panic on her face because his smile fades. "Rebecca, what is going on?"

Her heart races and her breathing speeds up. She's busted and there's nowhere left to hide.

Feeling cornered, she suddenly spits out, "Where were you today? You said you were going to visit your parents. Why are you back so early?"

Her question has its desired effect. Nathaniel is suddenly flustered, diverting the attention away from Rebecca and the hidden ring.

"Well . . . um –"

"All the way to LA and back in twenty minutes? That's quite a short visit. You may have broken the time-space continuum with that visit."

Nathaniel's face goes slack. She has him right where she wants him now. The tables have turned.

"Nathaniel, I saw you," she says. "I. Saw. You." Each word is a staccato jab. She crosses her arms, hiding the ring in the crease of her elbow. "Who is she?"

"Whoa, whoa," he says, holding up both his hands to slow her down.

"Who. Is. She. The blonde. I know. I know everything. I saw you."

"Rebecca –"

"Who is she?!" she shrieks, losing control. "Tell me! Tell me now!"

"She's my sister!"

That she was not expecting.

"What?"

"Kristen," he says, like she should know exactly who he's talking about. "The girl you hit with your car. The girl you said was the child of my father and his secret whore. I believe those were your words."

"What?" she repeats. "I don't – I don't understand."

"You were right. I can tell you the whole story later, but Kristen put the pieces together. I agreed to a DNA test to put the matter to rest. Honestly, I wanted her just to let it go. But it turns out she is my sister. I got the results yesterday and I didn't want to wait to find out. I – I have a sister." He pauses, a little smile flitting across his face. He's happy. She hates that he looks happy when she has been in utter agony all day long.

"You lied to me," she states, anger still coursing through her, unable to stop its inertia.

"I wasn't ready to tell anyone. I still can't quite believe it."

"You. Lied."

"Rebecca –"

"We promised we would be honest with each other. I thought we weren't those people anymore who would lie and cheat. You pinky swore!"

It's the final vestige of fight she has in her. Her throat constricts and her eyes well up with tears. She slumps, her back sliding down his kitchen cabinet until her butt hits the floor. She crumples, her legs jutting out like a ragdoll. She's exhausted, crushed under the weight of her emotions. Of her shameful actions.

He squats down in front of her. "I'm sorry. You're right." he says. "I'm sorry I lied to you."

"Stop," she says, covering her face with her hands, "stop apologizing. You don't even know what I've done. What I did today. It's me. I'm the bad guy."

"No –" he starts to protest.

"Look." She shoves her hand in his face, showing him the ring on her finger. "I broke into your apartment. I broke into your safe," she says, her voice shaky, on the verge of tears. "I took the ring. I thought . . . I thought you were . . ."

He sighs and palms her knee. She doesn't need to say the words; he knows what she thought.

The humiliation of the whole situation crashes down around her, all the day's events hitting her at once. The tears are falling now. She can't hold it back any longer.

The words come flooding out and she tells him everything. About Open Mike's and his criticism of her music, about the girls and what Valencia said, about seeing him kiss his sister on the cheek. All of it. He listens, his face frozen in a neutral position.

When she's finished recounting the tragedy of the day, she finishes by saying, "This is exactly what I always feared. This is why I've been avoiding relationships for so long. Love is my trigger."

"I did lie to you," he says ruefully. "This isn't entirely your fault." While his words are gentle, his jaw is still set.

She sniffles. "Are you mad?"

"I'm still processing everything."

At that moment, an alert chimes from Rebecca's purse. It's time to leave for her appointment.

"I can't face Dr. Akopian right now," she says, shaking her head, "after what I just did. I can't. I'm so embarrassed."

Nathaniel licks his lips, thinking. "What if I went with you?"

"What?" she huffs. "No. I can't just bring you. That's not how it works."

The thought is terrifying: laying bare all the insecurities she carries from their past.

Wiping away the tears under her eyes, she takes a deep breath and looks up at him. His eyes are clear, open, ready. After everything that just transpired, if he can still show up with a willing heart, how can she say no? Dr. Akopian may object at first, but has a little resistance ever stopped her, especially when it comes to love?

"Maybe we need this," he says softly. "Maybe there are some things we need to say to each other."

She realizes, in a clarity that usually doesn't come until far after the fact in hindsight, that she's living in a moment that will define the rest of their relationship. The choice is in her hands.

Fight and/or flight. Usually in that order.

"Come with me," she whispers. "Come fight with me."

A smile slowly forms at his lips. Squeezing her knee, he says, "Let's go."

To Be Continued . . .