Before the man could finish, Phineas grabbed the beer bottle off the table and hurled it straight at him.
"Say that again, you son of a bitch."
The living room erupted in an instant, several people tangled together, throwing punches.
I held the box and headed for the door, and the shattered glass sprayed out, slicing across my shin.
I went down on the floor, blood trickling down my ankle.
For a heartbeat, the room went silent.
Phineas rushed over, crouched in front of me, lifted his head to look at my face, his pupils trembling faintly.
In that moment, I saw the panic in his eyes.
But all I felt was tired.
So tired.
By the time we left the hospital, it was afternoon.
Three stitches in my shin, and I walked with a slight limp.
Phineas walked behind me, not saying a word the whole way.
I stopped at the hospital entrance to wait for a car, and he reached his hand over.
His pinky hooked around mine.
This was our signal, the one we'd had since we were kids.
It meant: I was wrong.
Every time he was wrong, this was how he asked for peace.
When we were little and fought, he'd hook my pinky, and I'd forgive him.
When we grew up and argued, he'd hook my pinky, and I'd soften.
Every single time, I softened.
But this time, just looking at those two fingers hooked together, I felt drained of all strength.
In all our years together, I'd never once had his protection out in the open.
He'd never acknowledged me in front of anyone.
Never held my hand walking past his classmates, never once said, "This is my girlfriend."
After Lacey showed up, he raised a cat for her, went out in the rain for her, gave me the silent treatment for her.
Wasn't I worth it?
I'd asked myself that countless times.
By the end of it, even I found it laughable.
I pulled my hand back.
He paused, then wrapped his arms around me from behind, his chin pressed against my shoulder, his voice muffled.
"I'm sorry."
Those two words.
I'd waited five years, and finally, here they were.
So why was there no happiness in me at all?
I struggled a little, and his arms only tightened.
"Let's stop being angry at each other, okay?"
I froze in his arms for a second.
If this had been before, that line would have been enough to break me apart completely.
But this time, I just stood quietly until he was done holding me, then reached up and pushed him away.
One step, two steps, putting distance between us.
His eyes were a little red, his hair a mess, a bruise still darkening his chin from the fight.
A man this good-looking, wrecked like this, was still good-looking.
But I looked at his face and felt nothing inside, just an emptiness.
"I don't need you to say sorry anymore."
He frowned. "What do you mean?"
I didn't answer. I turned and pulled open the door of the cab.
On the last day of the holiday, both families gathered again for a meal.
At the table, the mood was unusually warm.
Phineas raised his glass and took a long drink, his throat bobbing, then stood up.
"There's something I need to say."
"Greta and I, we've been together five years."
The air went still for a beat.
"She's pregnant. We're getting married."
Amelia's mouth fell open and stayed that way for a long while.
My mother turned to look at me, her eyes already rimmed red.
"Greta, is what he's saying true?"
I looked at Phineas.
He stood across from me, his eyes still red.
He was waiting for me to say yes.
Waiting for me to say I was willing.
Waiting for the "happy ending" he thought he'd get.
I stood up, my voice very calm.
"We've broken up."
Phineas's expression changed in an instant.
"And one more thing. The baby's already gone."
