Un domingo de julio, salió.
Estábamos en el restaurante. Me estaba contando una historia divertida sobre la caldera en el centro comunitario, y lo interrumpí.
– ¿Por qué? He dicho.
Dejó de hablar.
“¿Por qué elegiste eso sobre nosotros? ¿Por ella? ¿Por encima de mí? Necesito saber. Necesito que me digas por qué”.
La camarera vino con la cafetera. Vi nuestras caras. Se fue.
Ray miró sus manos sobre la mesa.
“There’s no good answer, Lucy,” he said quietly. “There’s no answer that’s going to make it okay.”
“I don’t need it to be okay. I need it to be true.”
He was quiet for a long time.
“The truth,” he said, “is that I didn’t think I was choosing. Not at the end. That’s the thing nobody tells you. At the beginning, it’s a choice. Every single time. But somewhere in the middle, the choice goes away. It’s like the floor disappears and you’re just falling. And you tell yourself you’ll stop falling tomorrow. And tomorrow you’re still falling.” He swallowed. “I’m not saying that to make you feel sorry for me. I don’t deserve that. I’m saying it because you asked for the truth.”
