“Baby, baby, baby, you're upset. I get it. Whatever is wrong, I'm sorry. Just please, come home. Things will be better at home,” he stressed.

“They won't. Things were worse at home. I hate it at home. I'm sorry, Mike. God, I'm so sorry. You have no idea how sorry. I'm just so fucking sorry,” she started to cry.

“You hate it at home!? How can you say that!? You're the best part of home! You're my best friend!” he shouted.

“I should've been your wife!”

Her shriek settled around them, caused a few lone people on the beach to look up.

“What are you talking about?” he asked, looking completely lost. She wiped at her eyes.

“I've had a lot of time to think about this, Mike, and I think we've always been great friends. I hope someday we can be friends again. But I don't think we were ever … ever … we were never lovers,” she stressed, Tal's voice running through her head.

“'Lovers'? Is this a joke?”

“No. I wish it were. God, I wish it were. I just couldn't have this conversation over the phone with you. I had to tell you in person. I'm sorry,” she sniffled. Mike's hands went into his hair and he bent forward.

“Had to tell me in person. In person. Why couldn't you come home? Why did I have to fly across the world!?” he demanded.

“I'm sorry. I couldn't come home, I just couldn't. I'm so sorry, Mike, I'm so sorry,” she was having trouble breathing through her tears.

Suddenly he was moving, shuffling across the sand. He practically tackled her, resting all his weight on top of her. She fell backwards, giving a muffled yell as he kissed her again. His tongue dove into her mouth, aggressive and rough, not his usual style. She twisted her head away.

“Stop it!” she cried out.

“You've just forgotten what it's like. You love me, Misch. I know you do. I know it,” he whispered, kissing her jaw and her cheeks and her eyelids.

“I do love you, Mike. Just not that way. Stop it,” she repeated herself, pushing at his hands.

“You do. And I love you. I love you,” he stressed, kissing his way down to her chest.

“Stop it!” she shouted, pushing at him hard enough to knock him off of her. He looked shocked.

“Jesus, what was that?” he asked, sitting up and examining his elbow. Misch sat up as well, folding her arms over her chest and drawing her knees up.

“I told you to stop,” she replied.

“I was just -,” he started, then broke off the sentence. Lifted his eyes to her. Stared at her. His mouth dropped open and she started shivering. But not in the good way.

“I'm sorry,” she whispered.

“You keep saying that. Why do you keep saying that!?” he demanded.

“Because I don't want to hurt you,” she cried.

“It's a little late for that! Why don't you want me to touch you, Mischa!? Why couldn't you come home, Mischa!? What the fuck is going on!?” Mike roared, jumping to his feet. She climbed to her feet right after him.

“I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, Mike. Please, I'm sorry,” she babbled. He got up close to her, put his face right in front of her.

“You cheated on me,” he hissed.

Not a question. A statement. Fact.

“I'm sorry,” she sobbed, putting her hands over her face.

Her eyes were covered, so of course she couldn't see, and it came as a shock when she felt his hands on her shoulders. Pushing her. Shoving her. Hard enough to knock her down. She landed hard on her ass and let out a shout.

When she finally got back to her feet, Mike was already off the beach. Mischa waited for a while, wanting to give him space. But they couldn't end it like that, not with his heart broken and her ass bruised. Eventually, she went after him.

She went all the way back to the hotel without a sight of him, and she halfway wondered if he would be there, or if he'd taken off somewhere else. As she approached the suite, she got her answer pretty quick. The door was wide open.

Mike was grumbling to himself as he carried an armful of clothing across the room. She didn't realize it was her clothing till after he'd flung it all over the balcony. She sighed and entered the room.

“I didn't think you'd show up! I figured you'd be busy screwing someone else!” he shouted at her, scooping another arm load of clothing out of her bags. She sat at the foot of the bed. Watched more of her clothing go over the railing. Did nothing to stop it.

I deserved that. I deserve this. I deserve so much worse.

“Can we talk?” she asked, her voice scratchy.

“Go fuck yourself.”

“Michael, we have to talk about this,” she begged.

“You should have talked to me about 'this' before you cheated on me!” he full on yelled, dropping the clothing he was carrying and steaming up to her. She had never in their entire relationship seen him so mad.

“I know! I know that now! I do! I'm an awful fucking person, and I don't deserve kindness or forgiveness! But please, just talk to me!” she begged.

He dropped down into a squat and his hands went back into his hair. He was struggling for air, and she was pretty sure he was crying, as well.

“You're right. You're right. I'm sorry,” he breathed.

“Don't be. You don't have to be sorry,” she panted, struggling for air.

“This doesn't have to end us,” he said in a quiet voice.