I remembered the white puffs of his breath when he talked. The way he'd grab my hand and stuff it into his coat pocket without asking. The flicker of something soft in his eyes when he looked down at me.
I reached the intersection. Red light.
I stopped and stared at the countdown, the numbers glowing an angry red.
Sixty seconds.
An eternity.
My phone started buzzing again. Once. Twice. Three times.
I stared at the name flashing on the screen: "My Val."
I hadn't changed that contact name in ten years. He'd snatched my phone when we first got together and typed it in himself. All this time later, it was still those two words.
The screen lit up and went dark. Went dark and lit up again.
On the sixth call, I picked up.
"Where are you?"
His voice was tight, a little rushed. The background noise was loud, the sound of a bar door swinging open and shut.
Someone called out, "Val, where you going?"
"Walking," I said.
"Look, about what just happened, I swear I didn't know she was gonna do that. Everyone was egging it on and I couldn't just—"
"Valentine."
He paused. "What?"
The light turned green.
I stepped forward. My footsteps were even, one after another. Steady.
"I just changed that contact name," I said.