“I really want to tell John, though.” I told the director. “He likes my writing. He’d sit there at work” – and here I was beginning to imagine it – “clicking through my blog, reading my writing, looking at the picture of cats . . .”
“Finding out how you gave him mono.”
“Oh no.” I put down the scissors I’d been using to cut little red hearts. “But I – I could tell him? Right? I could tell him.”
“Do you want him to hate you forever?” I shook my head because no, of course not, I do not want him to hate me at all, or to dislike me even, or ever. I don’t even let myself imagine it because – although I assuredly would – I don’t think I could stand it. “Then don’t tell him,” she insisted. “He could never forgive you, even if he said he did.” I doubt it, secretly, but I doubt both options – and I’m not thinking clearly, as has been amply established already.
So I ask you – literally, not metaphorically – do I tell him? Do I not tell him?