And the space between us feels impossibly wide.
I take a breath, my fingers curling around the edge of my menu. I can still hear his voice from that fourth date, hesitant and raw: “People don’t stay. Not for me. Not for long.”
And honestly, I didn’t want to stay.
Why would I?
People die on me.
That’s what they do. It’s not the same as leaving, but it’s close enough to keep you from wanting anyone around. Grief leavesa different kind of scar, one that makes you push people away before they can disappear on their own.
I went out with him because Haydn was relentless, not because I believed in this—us. I figured he’d get bored eventually, that he’d see what I saw every time I looked in the mirror: I’m not the kind of woman men stay with.
I’m not the one they bring home to meet their parents, the one they carve out a future for, the one they fight to keep. I was sure he’d come to his senses, and that would be that.
But Haydn didn’t leave.
Instead, he made me fall in love. With him. With the idea of us. He tore down the walls I thought were impenetrable and filled the cracks with something dangerously close to hope. He made me believe in something bigger than my fears, something I didn’t think I deserved.
And then, somehow, he made me want things I’d convinced myself I wasn’t allowed to want. He made me feel like the most desirable woman on the planet. The way he looked at me, like I was the only thing he could see. The way he touched me, with this mixture of reverence and need that made my skin feel electric.
He put me in the most fuckable situation—one where I wasn’t just his lover but someone he cherished, someone he respected. He made me feel like the kind of woman you don’t walk away from.
And I still can’t figure out why. Why he stayed. Why he chose me.
Because now, sitting across from him, I can feel the cracks forming again. I can feel the fragile thing we built together starting to tremble, and I’m terrified that this time, he might finally realize what I’ve known all along.
Maybe I’m not the woman you stay for after all.
And maybe it is time for him to leave. Which is fair because I might not have anything to give him. I don’t deserve Haydn.
The waitress approaches, a polite smile on her face as she sets down two glasses of water. “Would you like anything else to drink?”
I open my mouth to answer, but Haydn cuts in, his voice low and distant, barely lifting his head. “Water’s fine.”
The waitress glances at me expectantly. “Just water, thank you,” I manage, offering a quick, forced smile.
When I look back at Haydn, he’s still staring at the table, his jaw tight, lips pressed into a thin line. He doesn’t even look at me, and something inside me cracks a little more.
“I could stay,” I say, my voice soft, tentative, like it might shatter under the weight of everything unsaid between us. “Here in Connecticut if that’s best.”
“Is that what you want?” He shrugs, his tone sharp enough to sting. “Tell me now before Lang starts moving everything.”
“I’m not trying to hurt you,” I say, the words trembling as they leave my mouth.
“Of course not,” he replies, leaning back in his chair, his laugh bitter, almost hollow. “It’s just my fucking luck, though, isn’t it?”
His words hit like a slap, my breath catching as I try to steady myself. “We could stay away . . . away from you,” I offer, trying to be calm, grounded and mature even when on the inside I’m falling apart. “Find a place in Portland. Somewhere quiet?—”
“Why go back to Portland?” he cuts me off, his tone cold, calculated, like he’s already made up his mind about where this is going. “You can live in Seattle. Lang mentioned a center there. His cousin owns it. You wouldn’t have to worry about Keane’s care, and . . .” He trails off, shrugging like the rest of it doesn’t even matter.
“Because my fucking life is in Portland.” I snap, the words bursting out of me before I can stop them. “Becauseyouare in Portland.” My voice cracks, and suddenly, I can’t hold it in anymore. The tears come fast and hot, spilling over as I bury my face in my hands.
“Fuck you, Haydn,” I sob, unable to stop, my chest heaving as I break apart in the middle of this stupid restaurant.
I feel like I’m dying all over again. Like I’m standing at another goodbye I never saw coming. Because this is what he’s doing, isn’t it? Rejecting me. Pushing me away because he’s scared, because he thinks it’s easier to let me go than to stay and fight for us.
“Fuck you,” I choke out, my hands shaking as I wipe at my face. “Fuck you for making me fall in love with you. For making me believe we could do this. And now, now you’re just—” My voice breaks again, and I press my palms to my face, trying to stifle the sobs that won’t stop coming.
