There it was.
Adair stepped back, like the words physically hit him.
“I’m not yours to protect anymore,” she said, quieter now. “You don’t get to act like you care when the only thing you ever did was hurt me.”
“That’s not true.”
“It is. And I’m done pretending it’s not.”
For a long beat, neither of them moved. The streetlight buzzed above them. The sound of the party behind them blurred into background noise.
Adair opened his mouth. Closed it. Then finally—soft, but firm—he said, “I didn’t mean to hurt you…I…I never stopped loving you.”
She laughed. Just once. It was sharp and humorless. “You say that like it means something.”
“It does.”
“Then why does it feel like nothing?”
Adair stepped closer; his voice quiet, raw. “You think I don’t wake up every day wishing I could undo it? Wishing I could go back and just tell you the truth from the beginning? Wishing I could be there for you the way I should’ve been?” his voice cracked. “You been punishin’ me for fuckin’ years Sabine!”
Geechie was long gone as a subject. They were getting out the hurt now. The hurt from their failed marriage. The hurt from their failures.
Sabine blinked hard, finally feeling the sting behind her eyes but refusing to let the tears fall. “Punishingyou?” she repeated, stunned. “Adair, I birthed our daughteralone.”
That stopped him cold. She took a step forward now, her finger jabbing toward his chest like every word had been waiting years to be said.
“You think this is punishment? You think me walking away, trying to breathe again, trying to survive what you left me with, ispunishment? I labored, I screamed, I pushed out our baby girlalone…while you were out, drinking, laughing, sharing pieces of yourself that belonged to me.”
“I didn’t sleep with her,” Adair said quickly, like that might make it better. “It wasn’t like that.”
“Notthenbut the bitch justsohappen to fall on your dick themomentwe separated! Couldn’t even wait until I filed for divorce with your sorry ass! Fuck you, Adair! You think this is aboutfuckingthat bitch?” she barked. “It’s not about what youdidwith her, it’s about what yougaveher. You gave her your time. Your honesty. You gave her all the shit I was begging you for!”
They didn’t even notice the crowd that stood at the entrance of the venue watching them.
Adair’s jaw clenched. “I was lost.”
“So was I!” she cried, finally. The tears came now, hot and angry. “And I still showed up. For you. For our marriage. For our son. I still tried to hold us together while I wasbleedinginside,” she clenched a tight fist to her aching heart. “You gave up on me first. Youleftme first.”
The silence that fell now was the kind that split ribs. That exposed everything.
And then, softer, she added, “You lied to me about her for years. You let me believe it was just my insecurity talking. Like I was crazy for noticing the way she looked at you, for feeling you slip away from me piece by piece.”
Adair couldn’t look at her. His hands were fists at his sides. “I didn’t know how to talk to you anymore without feeling like I was failing.”
“You were supposed to failwithme,” she said, softer now but not gentler. “Not make me feel like you were failingbecauseof me.”
“I’m sorry…”
Sabine wiped her face, quick and rough, “I don’t need you to apologize anymore, Adair,” she said. “I needed that then. I neededyouthen. Not now. Not when it’s too late…that’s the difference between us,” she said, eyes shining. “You hated the version of you that hurt me. I had to become someone else just to survive her.”
Another beat of silence passed between them. The kind that swallows everything whole. Sabine’s phone buzzed in her hand—the Uber she ordered announcing its arrival. She looked past him, toward the car idling by the curb. Then back at the man she once would’ve gone to war for.
“I don’t know if I’ll ever forgive you,” she said, not out of spite but truth and walked away.
As Sabine sat in the backseat of the car, crying her eyes out, having to ensure the driver that she was okay. The pain in her chest wasn’t just from the fight—it was years long. Still pulsing.
Still swollen.