“I told him not to waste time on pride or fear. That if he loves you, he should fight for you. Same thing I’m telling you now.” He pauses. “Whatever happened between you two…the mistakes, the hurt, all of it…it doesn’t change the fact that you love each other. And love like that doesn’t come around often. So don’t throw it away because you’re scared or because you think it’s too late. It’s never too late if both people are willing to try.”
“What if we can’t fix it?”
“Then at least you’ll know you tried. But Noah? I think you can. I think you’re both just waiting for permission to admit you were wrong and want another chance.”
“I don’t know if I can trust him not to give up again.”
“You mean you don’t know if you can trust yourself not to give up again.”
Shit. He’s right.
I’m not afraid Danny will give up. I’m afraid I will. Again.
“Go to see him tomorrow,” Dad says. “Talk to him. Really talk. Not about who was right or wrong. About whether you want to try again. Whether you’re willing to do the work. Whether what you have is worth fighting for.”
“What if it’s not?”
“Then you walk away. But I don’t think that’s what you want.”
He hangs up.
I sit there staring at my phone, at Danny’s text, at the invitation to try again.
My father’s right. I’m scared. Not of Danny. Of myself.
Of making the same mistakes. Of giving up when things get hard. Of choosing control over courage.
But maybe that’s the point. Maybe the only way to prove I won’t do it again is to show up and try.
Sunday afternoon, I drive to the coffee shop. It’s the same place where I met Alex all those weeks ago. Where this whole mess started spiraling.
I guess it’s poetic justice that we try to fix things here.
I’m ten minutes early and order a coffee I don’t drink. I drop into a chair at a corner table where I can see the door.
At one fifty-eight, Danny walks in.
He looks like he hasn’t slept in days. Dark circles stain the skin under his eyes, his hair is messy, and he wears a baseball cap pulled low like he’s trying not to be recognized.
Our eyes meet.
For a second, I think he might turn around and leave.
But he doesn’t. He walks to the counter, orders something, then comes to sit across from me.
“Hi,” he says.
“Hi.”
We sit in silence for a moment. The weight of everything that’s happened sitting between us is like a third person at the table.
“Thanks for coming,” Danny finally says.
“You asked me to.”
“I know. But I wasn’t sure you would.” He wraps his hands around his cup. “I’ve been trying to figure out what to say. Spent all night rehearsing. But now that you’re here, I don’t know where to start.”
“Start with why you wanted to meet.”
