Free Hush by Jude Sierra

always felt like another half of a whole.
    “I’m sorry,” Maggie says softly. “Did I say the wrong thing?”
    “No,” he forces a smile. “Not at all. I just miss her.”
    * * *
    Maggie is a bit different after that. The sense of oddness returns, though on the surface, everything is the same. Cam can’t quite put his fin­ger on it, but there’s some undercurrent. Everything seems to hum with the faint vibration of discordant-energy.
    “Did I do something wrong?” he finally asks.
    “No.” Maggie doesn’t look surprised. “Well. Maybe.”
    “Oh, that’s not good,” Cam says. He folds his napkin carefully and puts it on the table.
    “No, I mean—” Maggie sighs and looks away. “I’m not mad at you or anything. I just…”
    Cam waits as long as he can through the silence that follows. “Do I have something to apologize for?”
    “I don’t know.” She speaks slowly, thoughtfully. “Cam.” She looks up at him. “Are you happy?”
    “What?” Cam feels a bit confused. “Of course I am, why would you—?”
    “I don’t just mean with me,” she interrupts, “although that too.”
    “Maggie,” he says helplessly, unsure where she is going.
    “So, I’ve been thinking about this for a while. And I don’t know how to say it. And it might be offensive, or all kinds of wrong, but I’ve been having this feeling.” She stops and takes a breath. “Well… I’ve had it. It’s come and gone, and maybe it was just a small hunch, and then you seemed to disprove it—”
    “Maggie,” he interrupts. “What are you trying to say?”
    “I don’t—” She lifts her hand and lets it drop helplessly. “Cam, do you think—is there any way…”
    “Any way…?” he prompts. She closes her eyes, takes a breath and then shrugs a little, settling into her body. When she opens her eyes again, there’s something a little sad, or lost, in them.
    “Cam, I don’t know that you feel the same about me as I do about you,” she says finally.
    “Maggie,” he starts. He has nothing to follow that with, though; how can he refute it when he’s sure it’s true? And how can he fail to deny it, when the implication is that he’s doing the wrong thing? He cares about her. So much. After a beat, he says so.
    “I know you do, Cam,” she says. “But it’s not the same. And—” She swallows, blinks shining eyes and then looks up, startled by their waiter bringing the bill. Cam takes it with a quiet thanks.
    “How much do I owe?” Maggie asks softly.
    “No, I’m paying.” Cam says.
    “Cam—” Maggie’s brown eyes are gentle when they meet his. “I don’t know that you should anymore.”
    “Stop it.” He presses his lips together.
    “Cam, when I said I care about you, I meant it,” she insists. Her hand covers his and squeezes. “I care about you, and I want you to be happy, and I don’t think you can be with me.”
    “Maggie,” he says. “I am .”
    “Not like you should be,” she says and takes the bill from him.
    “Please, Maggie,” Cam tries to take her hand when they exit the restaurant. His stomach is still knotted; his body is caught in the suspension before free fall.
    “Look, Cam,” Maggie says, “I think, once I have some time to get over this a little, we’re going to be great friends.”
    “But—” Cam starts.
    “That’s all we were meant to be, I think.” Night has come, a hush of dark cloaking the city. Her face is shadowed, but the tears in her eyes are clear. She stretches up on her toes. With her palm cool against his face, she kisses him so tenderly he can hardly feel it. “We’ll talk about this more, in a while,” she promises.
    Cam closes his eyes and breathes; this feels terrible. He isn’t just sad, but also guilty. He’s let her down. And he hates that he’s hurt her; it’s clear that he has. Her hand slips from his before he opens his eyes. When he does, it’s to watch her walk away. She’s putting her purse over her shoulder, cross-body in