I'm branching out to advice about writing today. Be selective. You can't recreate the story in your head on paper just by repeating every word of dialogue, recording every action and expression, and noting every detail of the scenery. If the description of the house doesn't contribute to the plot or the mood, skip it. If the characters spend half an hour talking about the weather, gloss over it. Focus on the things that contribute to the mood, the characters, the pacing, and the plot.
This is a doubly long chapter, so I'll throw in one more thing. Use "who" or "whom" for people/groups of people, never "that."
Scott is searching for something in my eyes, but I can't watch his for long. They're too familiar and too full of emotions. I can't look at them without feeling like it's my fault he feels like that. It is my fault, but it's not just my fault. It's more than what I say; it's who's listening and it's how he's receiving it. It's our history and it's all the lies he's told himself. I've made so many excuses for him, and right now, just for now, just while I'm healing... if that even is what I'm doing... I need to stop. I need to let him make his own excuses, because I don't have it in me right now to defend the man who's established himself as my enemy. I kept trying to understand, but he refused to be understood and he refused to understand me, and he probably has some great excuse for that, but there I go again, giving him the benefit of the doubt. I can't help it. That's okay, though, because I'm not trying to be mad, not like he was. I don't have to force myself to be angry when I already am.
"You acted like you wanted me back," he says. He sounds lost. I'm so vulnerable to everything about him: his words, the grit in his voice, his mannerisms. Even the way he shifts his balance is meaningful to me. He sounds lost, but it's because he's not giving me any credit.
"I did."
"You acted like you wanted me back, and I'm here now, and you do this. Was this the plan all along? It's not easy for me to be here. I'm not even supposed to talk to you." He doesn't trust me. That's what it keeps coming back to.
"Funny. I'm not supposed to talk to you either. Maybe we should listen to our therapists, hm?"
"You're just upset."
Upset. Oh, I'm upset all right. "I'm upset, therefore nothing I say is valid. Guess I shouldn't listen to anything you've said since 2018 then."
"This isn't like you." He isn't acting like himself either. It's almost like we've traded places. He's no good at being the doormat, though. It won't last long.
"Turns out I'm human," I intone. "Surprise! Not actually an infinite well of everlasting patience."
"I can't argue like this," he sighs, already defeated.
"You could only fight me when I wasn't fighting back?"
"You're too smart. You always used to take both sides in our arguments because I couldn't keep up." That was when an "argument" was nothing more than a discussion with two sides. He was the one with the good grades, but I have a bit of an edge over him verbally. I didn't realize he's really noticed. "It's your turn now," he says, holding his hands up in surrender. "Have at it."
"Why, because it'll be good for me? Was it good for you, shouting at me?"
"You listened. That's all I needed. You just kept saying I was wrong, and I thought you weren't listening, but you heard me, didn't you?"
Yes. I listened to every razor-sharp word, over and over and over again on repeat. That was his music, though. There was more than that, more that I never listened to because he never gave me the chance. I didn't know he had depression or that he heard Alex dreaming about me and assumed the worst. "How could I hear what you never told me? You left me guessing. For years. Where was I in the 'make amends' stage of rehab?"
