She checked the time as soon as the bell rang. He was late. Twenty-five minutes late, to be precise. The busy, angry mode was already on. Since he took his time, she did too as she walked toward the door. The bell rang again. In the hallway, she checked herself out in the mirror. Then she ran her hand through her hair and tried what a smile would look like.

"Renee," he called from behind the door. Not even now she increased the pace. She looked at the door. Knowing what was going to happen, she took a deep breath to give herself courage. They haven't been alone for a while. Not like this. Not in her apartment where she knew there would be no one interrupting them. . . . Such a pity.

She kept reminding herself that she can do this. However, doubts remained.

Finally she reached for the door.

Her eyes noticed the shoes first. Only then she started looking up. On the other hand, he's been watching her the whole time. And direct look was what he demanded from her, too. No escaping.

"Can I come in?"

She moved aside so that he could enter. He walked confidently, as if he was at home. Well, he wasn't. Not anymore. She noticed he's been looking around . . . to see changes? Everything looked the same. To be fair, there was a change. His stuff wasn't laying around anymore.

When she closed the door, he was already in the kitchen. Drinking her coffee.

"It's in the bedroom," she said. She let him finish the drink. She felt no need to argue with him on any matter, and definitely not about his lack of manners.

They moved to the bedroom. The box was indeed there. Waiting next to the bed. Full of his stuff.

Her idea was that he takes it and leaves. That was a wishful thinking, she now realized. Of course it wouldn't be that simple.

He picked it up, but placed it on the bed. Exactly where she didn't want to have it. It was heavy and dirty. However, he didn't seem to care about her clean bedding. He even took some things out, like a framed photograph or an old T-shirt. For minutes, he just watched it without any particular reason.

She sighed when she realized he was intentionally wasting her time.

"What am I supposed to do with it?" he asked when he turned around to face her.

"I don't know. I don't care."

"Don't you want it?"

"Dean." She chuckled out of pure despair. "All I wanted to keep I have on the bottom shelf of the closet." Immediately he went to check it. Meanwhile, she continued, "All that was mine and I didn't want I've thrown away. Everything in this box," she said, sitting down next to it and placing her arm on top of it, randomly grabbing one of the pictures, "is what's yours. Or things I thought you could want."

"There's nothing," Dean said, slightly changing the topic. He managed to open the closet and look at the bottom shelf. It was empty.

"Yeah."

He looked at her, alarmed, irritated. "You kept nothing?" That got him mad. "Is that how much I meant to you?"

"No."

"We've been together for . . ." He paused when he realized he hasn't counted it actually, and he was never a fan of anniversaries. "Well, I thought you would have kept something that would remind you of our relationship."

She took the blame.

"Can't believe this. You hate me so much that you just decided to erase me from your life?"

"It's a different closet." Finally she revealed the truth. For one thing, she certainly did not hurry with correcting him.

"Oh." Now he felt awkward. "Sorry," he apologized, too quietly for her to hear it clearly.

Still sitting on the edge of the bed, she put back inside the box the things he took out earlier. Then she stood up, lifted the heavy box, and turned to him. "Take this," she said, handing it to him. "And leave."

He did take it, but he stayed. This time, he placed the box where she originally put it, next to the bed.

"You really don't want me here, do you?"

"No." She decided to be honest. Besides, she did not feel like pretending at all. That would take too much effort, and she has already used a lot of that at work. Keeping professional relationship with your ex was difficult, really exhausting. Maybe it would get better with time, she thought, but they haven't reached that point yet. Now it was just antipathy.

"If I said why –"

She did not let him finish. "I don't give a damn about your reasons. You broke up with me, and I took it without your explanation. Honestly, I'm not even curious anymore."

"If I said," he tried again, but didn't get any further this time either.

"Then I'd know the reason, but still we wouldn't be together. What's the difference, really?"

It was strange that sight of a normally happy person being so apathetic. She meant her words. No, she really did not care. In her eyes remained only the fact that he screwed up. Or maybe not exactly screwed up. Whatever the definition or the amount of his guilt in the action, he did leave her. She couldn't simply forget that.

"You said we would still keep professional relationship. . . ."

"Don't we? Don't I smile every time I interview you?"

"Yeah, but . . . now . . ."

"Now we're not at work. I don't have to fake good mood when I see you."

It was his fault, and he knew it. He just . . . he wished she felt more relaxed around him. It would be stupid to expect their friendship to return, but there had to be some middle ground. . . . How he wanted the hostility to subside.

"That's all," she reminded him. "You can go now."

As he was lifting the box, considering making her wish come true, he changed his mind and put it down again. He walked those few steps that separated him from her. She did not move, but it would be stupid to mistake her lack of opposition for agreement and forgiveness.

She breathed in and out, slowly, repeatedly, she looked away and then back at him a minute later. "Okay. Let's say I am curious. Why?" She wasn't sure if she really wanted to know; maybe it was nothing more than a test.

And she got him. The silence assured her he never meant to reveal the reason.

"You know, I would like to know. I would like you to give me a legitimate reason to hate you. Because sometimes . . . I really wish I had something to hate you for." The thorough look, judgment maybe, indicated her what was going through his mind. "I know what you're thinking. No, I don't hate you. But don't think I'm okay with what you've done." He sat down next to her, but gave her space. "Everything was going fine," she reflected, and he could be sure there would be judging. "Either you're so good at hiding your emotions or there was really nothing leading to it." It wasn't clear whether she was done talking or not, but suddenly she stood up. No eye contact, no acknowledging of his on-going presence in her bedroom whatsoever. She left the room. In the kitchen, where she found herself a minute later, she grabbed the finished cup that previously contained coffee, ran it under water, and put it in the dishwasher. There weren't many dishes, she was in the city for a short period of time anyway, and she was living alone. Those factors also played role in the emptiness of her fridge. There was no reason to keep it stocked. She noticed how sad it looked when she opened it to put milk inside. As though she was alone, she decided to clean the table and make her whole kitchen look tidier. Not that it looked messy. The reason behind this was mainly that it helped keep her mind off the person in the next room.

But he came. It might have been three minutes later when he entered the kitchen, holding her phone in his hand. "Some nick2501 is texting you," he told her while still staring at the phone. He tried not to look judgmental . . . or jealous. Well, maybe he should have tried harder if that was supposed to look convincing. Besides, there came a question . . . he just had to ask, "Who is it?"

"I don't know," she said. She made no big deal of his breaking her privacy. Instead of focusing on what he was doing with her phone, she remained paying more attention to how her kitchen looked. Now she was wiping the surfaces.

"You don't know. . . ." Dean was failing at keeping his cool. Only his pocket prevented his left hand from revealing nervousness and eagerness to find all the available information about the guy. "I liked the picture you sent me last night," Dean read the message that the stranger sent to his ex-girlfriend.

Renee smiled. Although Dean couldn't see her facial expression as she was turned away from him, he did hear a soft giggle. Renee knew what Dean was thinking . . . and she decided to let him believe it was true. A little teasing was alright, according to her.

After little consideration, she even told Dean, "Could you send him a smiley?" Provoking him felt so good. "Oh, and add anytime," she said flirtingly.

The anger was reaching a breaking point. Dean was typing an answer, but it wouldn't be what Renee asked him to write. Dean got all protective, and it became a personal duty, a responsibility for him to make sure that pervert – or at least that's how Dean imagined him, some guy masturbating to a picture of a pretty girl he has never seen in person – would never contact Renee again.

And while he was on it, doing his job of a guardian, he went through her private conversations. Soon enough he noticed one message that caught his attention. There existed a reason why it mattered to him more than the others. "Dinner tonight?" Dean read the text. This time he knew the person who sent that message to her. "Greg," Dean said with despise. Then he angrily – and at the same time mocking her – looked at Renee. "So that's a thing?"

"Why not?"

"You can't be serious. That relationship is clearly a joke. You don't like him."

She knew exactly to what to say to shut his mouth. "You can sleep with people you have no interest in," she said, just for the sake of it. "You should know."

It didn't have quite the anticipated effect. He was still mad, of course, but he was hardly mad at her. This all he took as his due. Generally, he appeared calm when he approached her. Just as before, that invasion of her personal space did not scare her. She looked confident. Apathetic but knowing what she was doing. Aware of what she wanted and what she did not want.

Trying to maintain an eye contact to reinforce the power of his words, he said to her, "Don't do it just because you want to piss me off. I deserve being hurt, I know, but in the end, you'll be the one suffering."

Now she was starting to feel intimidated by him. If only she could step back, turn around, and open the window behind her without raising suspicion.

"I know I've hurt you, and I'm sorry, but I don't want to see you hurting more. This thing that you're doing, going out with someone just because you think it'll take the pain away, is a mistake. Disillusion. You'll end up hurting him and yourself as well."

"So what? Why should you care?"

Dean smiled when he was supposed to answer something so obvious. "I love you."

Those words were causing her more pain than anything else. Shivers ran down her spine and tears were forcing themselves onto the surface. But she wouldn't cry or show any sign of weakness. "You're a liar," she said, hoping it would downplay the effect of Dean's previous sentence on her.

He took the blame. "I'm not saying I've never lied to you or that I haven't hidden things from you. But believe me, when I say I love you, it's true. I always meant those words." He saw the repulsion, disgust, so he continued, "I loved you even when I was breaking up with you. . . . It makes no sense to you," he named what he saw. "If you love someone, you don't break their heart, is that what you're thinking?"

Just as she started to believe that he would maybe tell her why he did what he did, he turned around and created a fake impression that he would leave. Fortunately – yes, she changed her mind – he stayed. For some reason, she wanted him to be with her for a minute longer. If he weren't the one who hurt her, she would share the pain with him. The situation sucked so much. Why couldn't she hug him? Kiss him? Why couldn't they be together? Then she said something that was never supposed to leave her mouth. "I love you too." Now she had to turn around . . . away from him. Her eyes closed; a deep sigh forced itself out. Hands covered the mouth. Fingers in the corners of her eyes could feel that her eyes were getting watery.

What she said was true, and she knew it. She couldn't simply get rid of the leftover feelings. For almost a year, she was in love with him. Conditions changed now, but her heart didn't care. As she told him earlier, the reason for her hating him did not exist. Yes, he broke up with her. Was that enough to hate him? For her heart, no. Brain kept persuading her he was an asshole who, moreover, hurt her just for fun, but she had no evidence.

He was standing behind her. His arms were not being allowed to wrap around her. To squeeze her so that he would get that nice feeling of her closeness. . . . How he missed it. If he tried to touch her now, she would probably freak out because in a way stranger was attacking her private zone.

"Can't we . . ." She was trying to ask something, she wasn't sure, but she knew she might regret finishing that sentence in the end. Maybe looking at him would shut her mouth, she thought, and turned around. "Can't we forget about the last few weeks?" She pronounced her wish after all. Giving him chance to take everything back. To forgive and forget. Return to the time before it all went down.

Yes, he almost screamed. His lips were sealed, though. Then he opened them, as if to make her wish come true, but said nothing. He just kept starting at her, making it so much worse. Keeping her tense until . . .

"Forget it," she said. The decision to return to previous hostility has been made.

Maybe it was better that way, he thought. Not getting a chance. Not that he deserved any. Not that he'd take it back. For some reason, he decided to say something. "I don't want you to think it was an impulse."

She didn't want to talk about it. Not anymore. She wanted to see him walk out that door and forget about his whole presence in her apartment. Maybe even about their common past.

"Maybe when I woke up that day, I didn't know it'd be the last day of us being a couple. To be fair," he admitted, "it was probably the last thing that crossed my mind. But I did what I had to do. It's best for both of us."

"Oh, please." She couldn't take it anymore. "Those are but excuses. Why are you so terrified of telling me the truth? Being honest for once?"

"I am being honest with you."

"All that time you kept talking about how mature you are. Would a grown-up person do this?"

"Renee . . ." He was on the defensive side again. Proving her that all the words about his being able to deal with adult things were nothing but lies.

"What is it? I see three options. Either you don't give a damn about me and deliberately don't tell me the reason just to hurt me. Or you care enough to not want to see me hurt, and, therefore, you rather skip the ugly part about your or my failure. Or you have nothing to say because the reason does not exist."

"The truth is, I really don't want to hurt you."

"Well, you already are," she said.

He couldn't leave it like that. What he was doing wasn't fair to her, he was aware of that. He would make it right; he had to. We'll talk about this, he wanted to say. But then it occurred to him . . . When? If he wanted to have that conversation, he'd have already got over with it. But he waited. . . . Actually, it wasn't really waiting. There was no set date in his mind. He didn't bother with thinking how he would eventually solve the problem. At the moment, all he could think about was wrestling. There was an important match tomorrow, and he needed to be ready for it . . . both physically and mentally. It wasn't fair to her, but Renee was not a priority number one right now.

"I should go," he said. Finally he broke the uncomfortable presence of his body close to hers. Before leaving, he turned around one more time, getting a spontaneous yet inappropriate idea. "You wanna carpool to Philadelphia?" Subsequently, he remembered. "Right, you have that dinner thing. I forgot."

"Even if I didn't . . ." Renee didn't finish the sentence, but it had to be clear to them both that the times that they shared a ride were over.

"Well, see you later then." He returned to the bedroom to get that box that he actually came there for.

She followed him at first, but then stopped in the hallway. He came to her in a minute, looked at her, but he couldn't see a sign of friendship on her face. Before he opened the door, she said to him, "You still owe me that explanation." As if to remind him that they needed to conclude that topic.

She made him look at her. Those answers he never gave her were no minor issues. Maybe he thought he could just leave it unspoken, and at times she assured him she accepted his goodbye the way it happened, but she never would. She's been going back and forth about making that decision whether she wants to know or not. But this was not only about what they wanted, it was about doing the right thing. Tell the truth.

Dean looked nervous. He wished he could leave, but in fact it wasn't only her what stopped him from leaving her apartment. Of course he felt guilty, and his consciousness, that internal little angel whispered into his ear that he has to give her an explanation. So before leaving, he said, "For now, my selfishness's got to suffice."

"That's not a reason," she rejected his justification.

"Why isn't it enough? I take the blame. It was all my fault, not yours."

"I want you to be honest, not efficient."

He kept stepping around, showing nervousness as much as boredom. This talk would not happen now. "You want honesty?" The masculine dominancy prevailed. "I honestly don't want to talk about our past, our present, or our future. Right now none of those conversations are going to happen."

She found courage to ask, "When then?"

"When I have time. I'm sorry, but I really don't have time for you now."

"You're an asshole."

He took that as his due. But all he did to show his possible agreement with her name for him was shrugging his shoulders. It was clear that he didn't care at all. "Take it or leave it."

"Oh, wow," she exclaimed. This was too much. Still, she couldn't understand why he acted like that toward her. She did nothing wrong. Or did she?

Although she seemed to be preparing for saying something, he was the first one to speak. "I gotta go."

"So I'm just wasting your time."

That was what he was saying. Yet, he didn't mean it. Not completely. But it was true that he had no time to explain himself clearly, without saying something abrupt and hurting her feelings. He decided to make one promise. "We'll get to it. After . . ." Again, he had no idea when. When was he free? His schedule was pretty busy with all the wrestling events. Sure, he could find five minutes to sum up why he had to break up with her. As a matter of fact, he could do it right now. What stopped him was the reality. It wouldn't be five minutes of his time; it would be hours spent by thinking about it before it happens and after it, too. This was a complex thing. Something that demanded all his attention. And although now it wasn't that much different, he was able to control his thoughts better when she knew as little as possible. Let her think he was an asshole; let her think that he did it because he was too selfish to care about her. There was some truth in it. In the end, he would tell her the whole truth, just not now. And he couldn't give her a promise of a certain time when he ends the abstract hostility and gives her a true reason to hate him.

"You know what, Dean? Why don't you just write me an email? Or better, let's do it this way. I get that there's the Royal Rumble tomorrow. So from Monday you have two weeks. If you choose not to tell me in that period, just keep it to yourself. I'll take it as we're done . . . for good."

"I said I would explain it to you."

"I really don't think I can count on your word."

For some reason, that sentence annoyed him more than anything she's said before. "Uhm . . . excuse me?" He let the door behind him be and changed his focus on the person in front of him. He needed at least another minute before he leaves. "Have I ever done something that would portray me as an untrustworthy person?"

"Is that a joke?" She laughed, too.

"No, I'm serious. Apart from the break-up . . . what evidence is there?"

"Ten minutes ago you yourself admitted that you've lied to me . . . you've kept things from me . . . isn't that enough?"

"Concrete example," he said, a bit arrogantly.

"Hmm . . ." The reason for her pause was not that she couldn't think of anything. She just really didn't want to fight with him. He was about to leave anyway. Why fight? The only thing she really wanted to argue about was the break-up, and he clearly opposed that. All she was left with were the examples from the past . . . but they were in the past, as was their relationship. There was no need to open up the old wounds.

"Fine. Can I say something now?" He continued after her confident nodding. "I've been willing to take the blame. But take a look at yourself. You're no saint. Two weeks after we break up you find another guy. Don't tell me you fell in love with him. . . . Besides, ten minutes ago – when we're at that – you claimed you still loved me. You wanted to get back together? You realize that you're in a relationship . . . or dating or whatever it is you're doing . . . or who you're doing," he said for some reason, however quietly. "That guy clearly doesn't mean much to you when you're willing to throw him away when there appears to be a chance to restore our relationship." He wouldn't let her interrupt – nor she attempted to. "You're with him him to get me mad, make me jealous, that's how I've understood it . . . and I think I'm correct. And then there are all those texts from other guys. . . . Plan B? And C? And D, maybe? You know what? I think you're not ready to have that talk either. I'm not saying I'm not primarily the one postponing it, but take a look at yourself . . . again. When I want to talk about us, I want to talk about it with the girl I used to go out with, not the person you're pretending to be now. I'm okay with you screaming at me, but fuck this passive-aggressive behavior." Now he made a pause long enough for her to say something. She didn't. He turned around, as if to leave again, but he stayed. He wasn't finished yet. "Ditch the Greg-guy. Be single for a while. Let it all sink in . . . don't pretend everything's fine."

"You know nothing."

"Well," he said, opposing her as he used to, "I'm going through the same things you are. I lost a girlfriend too. Don't think that just because I initiated it it's that different for me." His voice was kind of friendly now. Even soothing. It was in total contrast to the one he had been using before. "Anyway, what's I'm saying is, when we get through this phase, when there'll be no immediate hard feelings – I'm sorry, but I really don't think it's gonna be up to two weeks – then we'll talk about it."

"I don't think there's gonna be someone to care then."

"I believe there will."

"If you're leaving the back door open by not telling me –"

He refused that accusation. "That's not the reason." To whether or not he meant to leave the back door open in general . . . he chose not to address that matter.

"So what is?"

"I've already told you; I need time for that talk."

"And I said you have two weeks," she told him.

"Renee . . ."

No sweet words would change her mind. There appeared to be nothing to change her opinion. "Whatever," Renee said.

"Come on," he exclaimed. "Don't say whatever . . . just don't say whatever."

"Dean," she addressed him. "Bye."

They appeared so confused. First, he wanted to leave. Then, when she gave him an opportunity to go and leave it as it was – unspoken – he wasn't happy either. Dean always seemed to want more. Yet, unsure of what his ultimate goal was. Did he have any vague idea at least? And the same went for her, really. Renee couldn't make up her mind. Would it be better to know now or later? Or wouldn't it be better to let it go for good? Fuck the reason; it wouldn't change the fact that their relationship was over. That may have been the ultimate truth, but they did not accept it as a definite state of their affairs. There was hostility, so much suppressed anger that it would boil at any good enough occasion. At this stage of their post-relationship, they were looking for excuses to start a fight. Peaceful coexistence would work, at least not yet.

Dean changed his mind. Again. "I'm not leaving."

"Well, you don't live here, do you?" Renee reminded him. That was of no interest nor importance to him. The box that he had been holding until now was accommodated on the floor. The door would not be touched in next few minutes for sure. Dean decided to stay, even though that was against what he preached. He left the exit area and returned to the kitchen. Then he decided that there was better atmosphere in the bedroom. In the end, that was the one place where he could always make her surrender. Okay, maybe it was different now, but he believed that past experience could help.

He sat down on the edge of the bed and waited for her to come. She took her time. When she finally showed in the doorway, her facial expression suggested she was not happy about the turn of events.

She said, "You have no right to be here. When I want you to leave, you leave."

"Or what? You call the cops? Please."

"Go," she repeated. There was no strategy; she was aware that she was practically begging him now. All she wanted was to achieve peace of mind. That could only happen after he leaves.

"I should," he admitted. "But I don't mind being a little late. They'll wait for me." The confidence combined with lack of seriousness was so fucking annoying. Even though the way he talked and acted attracted her before, now she couldn't stand it. She swore she didn't feel like this a week ago. Even she had troubles understanding what was happening. Why it kept getting worse. Well, that hate that she claimed earlier did not exist was emerging now. At this point, the image of tomorrow's Royal Rumble, the possible encounters with her ex-boyfriend were frightening. Suddenly there was a possibility she wouldn't be able to handle dealing with him as though with a coworker. That scared her. She wouldn't think of it when he appeared in her apartment today. Now, however, it seemed like a real option. She knew she would have to do something about it; they certainly couldn't avoid each other in the workplace. So there was another thing to keep her awake at night.

He knew she wasn't really paying attention to him. But in the meantime, he simply watched her. Observed whether there existed a possibility of her bursting into tears or start shouting at him, trying to forcibly get him out of her apartment. Well, none of those threats seemed imminent.

"Tell me what you're thinking about," he asked her.

She stopped abstractedly watching the ground and looked up at him, but there was no answer in her face. He would need to wait for her to speak. And she would, soon enough. "I hate you."

"Well, finally." He laughed. "Isn't it funny, though?" To him, it clearly was. "Not that long ago you said you loved me. And you meant it. Now you're saying you hate me. And I can tell you mean it too."

"And the best word you found to describe it is funny." Nah, she didn't agree with that word selection. Scary. Sad. Frustrating. Bitter. Worrisome. All those words were more suitable.

He opened his mouth to say something that would perhaps explain why he found it funny. Or make a remark about the bright side of it. Well, he ended up saying "I still love you, you know." And he said it with so much easiness. There was not worrying. As if he had a plan and everything went according to it. These mood swings were something she couldn't understand.

"I'm disgusted by you."

Now he stood up and made steps in her direction just to walk past her and end up in the hallway. He found the box that he left there and picked it up. While still standing in that spot by the door, he noticed a photograph laying more or less on the top of the pile and took it out. It was a picture where they were together. They were alone, and it was apparent from her arm position that Renee took that picture. Anyway, he couldn't really tell when it was taken, but it seemed to be a while ago. He was facing right, kissing Renee's cheek, and he looked strange. Drunk, probably. Not love drunk. Just drunk. But she was smiling. Well, he held that picture, looking at it for a minute, and then he decided to place it on a cabinet in the hallway. Renee already had some pictures there, and Dean was almost certain that there were more before, but those were probably the ones with him in them, and quite understandably she did not want to look at them anymore so she put them away. Now Dean added this one to the selection. She'll probably put it away when she sees it, but Dean wanted it to stay, even if that were to be only for five minutes.

The rest of the insides of the box remained in the box for now. Dean held it and brought it with him back to the bedroom. Renee already moved inside. She was now standing in about the middle of the room with her arms crossed, looking judgmentally at the person who returned. He wondered if she thought he would leave. Probably not.

"So what's the plan?" she asked.

"What do you mean?"

"Well, you gotta have some plan. What are we doing here? We won't talk about the past and there's no future to talk about. We don't share present either, so why did you stay? You wanna remain silent until . . . I don't know, you have to go? Or you wanna talk? Argue? Or make sure I won't go have that dinner with Greg?"

He sighed. "I don't know."

"Well, why don't you figure it out and come back with a clear result?"

"I think I'll just stay."

"Oh my god!" she exclaimed. "I don't want you here, Dean! Just . . . leave." She was losing fight with her emotions. The anger arrived first. But if he keeps teasing her, she might end up crying too. "Is that so much to ask for?"

"I'll go," he said, sounding as though he finally understood what she wanted. But his maintaining in the room was contradictory to the words that left his mouth.

"Now."

"No."

She grabbed her phone as a last resort.

"You're not seriously calling the cops, are you?"

Soon enough he noticed she wasn't making a phone call but writing a text message. . . . if she wasn't browsing the web, which would be kind of strange under these circumstances.

"What are you doing?" he asked so that he would get her to clear his confused mind.

She said nothing.

It all cleared up thirty seconds later. Dean's phone rang, and the person calling was Roman.

"You didn't . . ." Dean addressed her, maintaining an eye contact with her, letting her know that he was suspicious and judgmental of her actions. However, he picked up his phone before finishing the accusation.

"Yep?" Dean turned around to focus on the call. In the meantime, Renee remained standing in the same spot, in a safe distance from him, waiting for him to get the message.

"Really?" Dean glanced at Renee with a judgmental look. "Well –" He wasn't allowed to finish because clearly the person on the other side had something to say. "Yes." "Come on!" Dean exclaimed. "I didn't do an–" "I've been nice," he said calmly. Then as a reaction to something Roman said, he laughed. "Right. 'Cause – " "And if not?" "Fiine. . . . Yes." Then the call ended. Dean turned back to Renee and asked her the same question that he addressed his friend earlier. "Really?" He was judging her. Well, after all, she did text Roman and explained her situation to him so that he would call Dean and make him leave. But to resort to something so degrading . . . Well, she saw she had no other option. Not even now there could be seen wavering or regret of that decision on her part.

"Go," she repeated, completely ignoring his complaints. "Leave."

"I haven't done anything." One could hear he meant those words. Dean believed that in general he did nothing to deserve her acting that way. At least not today. And, according to him, she couldn't always get what she wanted just because he broke up with her. Yes, that was the one thing he was guilty of, but she couldn't keep rubbing that in his face in order to avoid having to spend more than two minutes with him.

"You were supposed to come here, get your stuff, and leave. Yet you're still here, complaining about how everything's unfair, how you don't want to be with me but I can't be with anybody else either. You refuse to tell me why it is so. What do you want?"

"I don't know."

"Well, I know what I want. I want you out of my life. And if that's not possible, I want you at least out of my apartment."

"Okay," he said. There was a change on his part. Joking did not interest him anymore. He realized he must have crossed the line at some point. Renee standing in this room right now was not the one he could make laugh and by that make her forgive him. Now she was merciless, but she was what he made her. She was getting sick of him. Of his childish behavior. If it was meant to be over, why can't he respect it? Breaking up means they won't hang out anymore. They will not stay in the same room laughing over some joke he heard on the internet or watch a movie. They are not a couple. And right now it appears that they are not friends anymore either. It is as she described it; they're coworkers. That's pretty much it. "But I –" Dean attempted to say something. Leave with clean slate if that was possible.

"No, Dean. No but. Just go."

"But we will talk about it . . . right?" He asked with hope, but now he wasn't sure that would happen.

"As I said, you have two weeks if you want me to change my opinion on you."

"Two weeks is not –"

"Take it or leave it."

He continued despite the interruption. ". . . enough."

Although unwillingly, she took her phone and checked the calendar. She thought if she could do something about that date, do that one last favor to him. After a minute of hesitant consideration, she came with an extension to the deadline. "Fine. February 13. That's the last day I'm willing to accept your explanation."

"13th?" He checked that date. "Friday the 13th?"

She didn't realize that, but it was definitely not a deal-breaker to her. "You want 12th?" Her voice was distant. She made it sound like an order, like if she was his boss and Dean was an unreliable employee who keeps screwing up and until now she's been only giving him last warnings, but now she had enough, and she made it clear that there would be no more concessions. "I can move the deadline to a sooner date if that's what you want. But there's no way I'm spending Valentine's Day with you on my mind."

"Oh, that's right." Valentine's Day totally slipped his mind. "Yeah, well, I'm not here that day anyway." She could peacefully enjoy her date knowing he was in Abu Dhabi. But the thing was, those earlier deadlines did not suit him either. "You know I'm in the Emirates those days."

She showed no sympathy. "I believe they have internet there."

"Renee, I'm not writing you an email. We need to talk about it." In any other case, he would not want to have a discussion about anything. That revealed how much he cared about it. "Please."

"13th of February. You can do it sooner. Or you can choose to never do it. You know, that's also an option."

"It's not an option," he refused.

"Well you have long enough time to make up your mind. Find the best way to do it, find the right words that would perhaps allow us to become friends later. . . . It's your choice, Dean. I can't make you tell me the truth. But realize that I don't have eternity to deal with you. Once it's over it's supposed to be over . . . why should we drag it, be returning to it for months?"

"I know, I know . . . friday the 13th. Take it or leave it . . ." he repeated in a sarcastic tone.

"Cool. So . . . can you finally leave now?"

"I need more time."

Renee sighed. Anger was turning into despair. This became an annoying, dragging conversation about nothing. Why can't he turn around and go? He was the one saying he didn't have time, after all. . . . But okay, if he wanted to play this game, she would give him what he wanted. Sort of. "Okay. Time for what?"

"You know."

"I don't, really. I seriously can't think of one explanation that would take longer than two weeks to prepare. Why the hell is it so fucking complicated for you? I'm not asking for a thesis, for God's sake . . . all I want is one or two sentences that would explain why you broke up with me."

"It's not that simple," he said.

She couldn't understand why he turned this into a problem. Most people deal with this within few minutes of their break-up; why almost a month later is she and Dean still having this discussion? "Seriously. Give me one example."

"Okay. Maybe you have a point," he finally admitted. "I could deal with it here and now. But I wouldn't be happy with it."

"Oh," she exclaimed in a satirical voice. "So Mr. I-need-more-time wouldn't be happy with it? Well, happiness was never a condition. For one thing, I can guarantee you right now that it won't make me happy to hear the explanation. I just want it so that we're really done. So that . . . I don't know, perhaps I can work on it and not do the same mistake in my future relationship. Or so that I know it was completely your fault and I can be even glad we're not together anymore." She was making fun of him.

"Don't dramatize."

"You know, now that I think about it, there comes to mind one reason why you would need more time." She paused for effect. "To come up with a reason."

"You think I don't know why I did it? You think I have to think of some excuse that would sound plausible and that would justify our break-up?"

"Yes," she confidently replied. Then she added, leisurely, "Other than that, for any other reason one-sentence explanation would be sufficie–" Her phone beeped and she didn't bother finishing that sentence. She checked her phone and saw a message from Roman. Is he gone? He wanted to know. Renee looked at Dean again and smiled. No. She replied to Roman.

Of course, a call followed.

Dean took his time looking at it, he watched Renee instead, so she told him, "You might wanna pick it up. It's Roman."

"Why?"

"Well, he asked whether you've already left and I said no. So I suggest you come up with a good excuse as to why you are still here."

Dean groaned. Although he did not want to, but he knew he had to get it. Roman could get pretty pissed if Dean kept making him wait. Thus, he answered the phone, and immediately he had to move it away from his ear to not go deaf from all the yelling. "Jeez! Calm down," Dean shouted back five seconds later. "I know . . . I remember." He smiled. "Yes." Then he looked at Renee who would not return the stupidly happy, in a crazy way, look. "We're just talking. Nothing illegal's happening here," he informed him. "I can assure you." Next minutes he spent just listening to Roman, and then Dean said, "You're the only one angry here." Finally Dean turned to Renee. "Do you want me gone?" Maybe she should have, but she didn't reply. Was it the kind way Dean asked her? She didn't know. "She didn't say anything," Dean let Roman know. "Yeah . . . but that was earlier. We've made up since then." Again, Dean smiled. This time the smile was directed at Renee, and it was totally honest. "You can talk to her if you like." Apparently Roman wanted to do so, to probably check if those weren't lies, so Dean handed his phone over to Renee. He had to make a few steps in order to get to her because she seemed unwilling to move.

Renee heard Roman asking a couple of questions, but she got in some kind of melancholic apathy and did not want to speak. She kept making hmm noises, but they were too unsure for Roman to be able to make his mind about the situation that was taking place in Renee's apartment. Then to one question Renee decided to reply more directly. "No," she said. She continued listening to a speech. In the meantime, she sat down and waited quietly until she got the chance to speak again. "Thanks anyway." She ended the call and returned the phone to Dean.

"What did he say?" Dean asked. He noticed that something has changed about her. Yeah, the anger disappeared . . . or at least diminished to a level that did not present a threat anymore. She was calm now. Calm but not in a good way. Nothing improved in her viewing of him. It wasn't that she suddenly liked him more or something. Maybe she just got tired of him.

That was probably closest to the truth. She sat on the bed, looking at the wall. Dean asked her a question, but she wouldn't answer. Why anyway? For the most part, Dean knew what Roman told her because the words he used were mostly the same he used talking to him. Sure, then he asked if she was alright . . . if she didn't need help. . . . This wasn't a crisis. Besides, somehow she still believed Dean would leave on his own.

"While I'm glad you're not screaming at me . . . this is not the kind of progress I wanted," Dean said. To him, she appeared to have resigned on the situation. She wouldn't force her demands because she knew she couldn't succeed. Or that passivity was her solution to the problem. If he sees her sad, he'll decide to leave her alone. But did she not know him at all?

Before deciding on the next step, Dean – without her noticing – switched his phone off. Then he walked toward her and sat down on the bed right next to her. She was looking ahead while he was staring at her hands playing with each other on her knees. It would be a lie to claim he wasn't considering taking her hand or even hugging her. However, he did none of those things. The sense of reality prevented all his desires from coming true.

"Are you okay?"

She was. The silence did not mean it was otherwise. But he couldn't know the truth, and she chose not to tell him. What she focused on was the floor now. She cleared her mind and waited. Although Dean thought she was frowning and that she was sad, probably as a result of something he did, she was fine. Apathetic . . . yes. But she reached that inner peace, and more or less her silence was strategic. She got a help in this plan with another beeping sound of her phone. Making sure he wouldn't notice, she smiled and looked at the phone to check the message. Roman really worried. Is he still there? She watched the keyboard and held the tip of the finger in a safe enough distance to not press anything. Dean must have been wondering whether she didn't know what to write. Whether she wanted to reply at all. . . . Of course he noticed the message. He was still right beside her, and it was clear to both that he would look. And he kept looking at her private correspondence, waiting for that answer. Then her fingers started moving as she typed the response. No. That wasn't an error. And thinking this, Dean started wondering whether that wasn't a signal for him to leave. Renee just saved him from an unpleasant, demeaning conversation. Well, at least she made his situation a little better.

"Thanks," Dean said to her.

She remained silent. No, not a single syllable would leave her mouth. Maybe that'll make Dean realize he shouldn't be there.

That plan – if it really was a plan – worked. "I should go." He didn't make it clear whether his decision to leave had anything to do with the message Renee sent to Roman or with Renee's quietness and evident unhappiness with his presence. It was also true that he couldn't waste more time, that he needed to hurry because, after all, he had a schedule to follow. He said that at the beginning, and it was as true then as it was now. So he had to go and she didn't want him in her apartment. What made him stay for so long? Guilt? Or the feelings he still had for her? No matter how it really was, he wouldn't analyze it. That was the plan, after all.

He stood up and picked up the box again. This time he had to stay focused. No more distractions and no more decisions to stay a minute longer. "So," he turned to her, "I guess I see you later." Okay, one more time he'd break the rule. He'd wait another minute – not longer – before leaving. She had to say something. At least bye. But she was silent. "Renee," he called her to get her to react. That did not happen. "Bye," he said, and anticipated her goodbye. Two minutes passed. "Okay," he sighed, and turned around. Confused, irritated but knowing it was his fault, he approached the door. He turned around once more, hoping that she maybe stood behind him, that she wanted to say bye at last. . . . There was nobody. He felt somehow disappointed. On the right side, he noticed the picture he placed there a little earlier. The time when he was able to make her smile was gone. Dean left, and took the picture with him.