He touched her face, tried to memorize the angle of her jaw, the curve of her lips. “I always want to see you.”
But by afternoon, the heat of reunion had cooled. They sat together on overturned crates near the vegetable beds, watching bees wander lazily from blossom to blossom. A shadow had crept in between them again—not sharp, but familiar. It clung to their silences.
Helen plucked dead leaves from the base of a lettuce plant. “Your mother’s garden’s thriving.”
“It must’ve missed her nagging as much as I did.”
She laughed, but it faded too quickly.
She brushed a bit of soil from her palm, eyes on the row of greens. “I thought about writing,” she murmured. “Even tried. Got as far as sealing the envelope.”
Nic glanced at her, a brow arched. “Then what happened?”
She gave a breath of a laugh, half sheepish. “You vanished into the one place in the world where mail doesn’t go.”
“You still could have sent it.”
She shrugged. “You were the one who left.”
He opened his mouth, then shut it again. The breeze stirred the dill. Somewhere, a gate creaked open and sighed closed.
“I didn’t leaveyou,” he muttered.
“You leftus,Nic.”
That was always it, wasn’t it? The same knot, pulled tight until it choked him.
“You accused me of running,” he said, voice low. “But when I stayed, you couldn’t meet me halfway. You wanted me to fit into your world—but wouldn’t bend an inch to understand mine.”
“And you think you’re the only one who’s sacrificed?” Her beautiful azure eyes flashed, but her voice stayed quiet. “I have foughtsohard to make us work. But I am always the one defendingyou—to my parents, to my friends.”
Nic scoffed softly, but it was a sound without humor. “Defending me?” he echoed. “From what—your mother’s raised eyebrows? Your father’s endless comments about ‘prospects’ and ‘respectability’? I’ve seen the way they look at me, Helen. Like I’m some wild thing you plucked out of the woods and forgot to tame.”
“You’re twisting it,” she said, but not with conviction. Her arms were crossed over her chest, more in protection than anger. “They just want what’s best for me.”
“No,” he said sharply, stepping closer. “They want what’s safest. What’s familiar. Someone with a name that opens doors, not someone who has to push them open with his bare hands.”
She turned away, fingers tightening around her sleeves. “And you resent me for that?”
“I resent that you won’t acknowledge it. That you want me in your life but act like you’re ashamed of where I came from.”
Helen’s chin lifted at that, proud and trembling. “That’s not fair.”
“Isn’t it?” His voice cracked around the edge. “You say you’re always defending me—well, I’m always proving myself. In every room we walk into together, I can feel the weight. That I’m not enough. Not polished enough. Not predictable enough. Sometimes I think you don’t even hear it anymore because you’ve lived with it so long.”
She flinched, just slightly.
He softened, but only a little. “You asked if I think I’m the only one who’s sacrificed. I don’t. I know you’ve stood between me and a hundred quiet slights. But don’t pretend we’re not dragging two very different lives into the same room and calling it love. Because loving each other doesn’t mean the world stops keeping score.”
Helen said nothing at first. Her silence wasn’t surrender—it was full of grief. Then she whispered, “Maybe I just hoped love would be enough to make it stop mattering.”
And for a moment, the quiet between them said more than either of them knew how to.
“Do you even believe we still make sense?”
“I believe I still love you,” she said.
He flinched. “That’s not the same.”
