April fools.
I’m still waiting for Owen to yell the words.
How many seconds have passed now?
Nine?
Ten?
Each one is excruciating.
The longer we’re quiet, the clearer it all becomes.
This isn’t a joke. He means what he said.
Still, with a shred of hope left in my rapidly deflating heart, I ask, “Is this just a really bad April fool’s joke?” I despise how my voice shakes.
His sigh is my answer, but he speaks anyway. “No, Aubrey. It’s bad timing. I’m sor—”
I pull my phone away from my ear and stare at it, the rest of his sorry floating out into the air. With my thumb I end the call and toss my phone on the bed beside me. I don’t need to hear his apology.
Click Follow to receive emails when this author adds content on Bublish
Comment on this Bubble
Your comment and a link to this bubble will also appear in your Facebook feed.