Avoidance isn’t protecting me.
It’s isolating me.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Melissa
Kayla doesn’t ask what happened right away.
She just hands me a glass of wine and nudges my leg with her socked foot as she curls up beside me on the couch. Her laptop is open, cursor blinking patiently on a half-finished sentence, but she closes it anyway, like she knows this matters more.
I stare at the dark red liquid, watching it swirl as I tilt the glass.
“I didn’t cry at work,” I say finally. “Which feels like a lie because I definitely cried in the bathroom, but not in front of anyone.”
Kayla hums. “Gold star for emotional containment in a professional setting.”
I snort despite myself. She waits for me to continue.
“That’s the problem,” I say quietly. “He didn’t.”
Her expression softens, humor fading into steadiness.
“He shut down,” I continue. “Just … vanished. Right there. I could see it happen in his eyes, like a door slamming shut.”
Kayla leans back against the couch, studying the ceiling. “Men do love a dramatic internal exit.”
“This wasn’t dramatic,” I say. “It was … controlled. Almost surgical.”
That gets her attention.
She turns to me. “Oh.”
“Yeah.”
I take a sip of wine, then another. It tastes sharper than usual.
“I know he’s grieving,” I say. “I know Frank mattered to him. And I don’t blame him for not being okay. I just …” My voice wobbles, and I hate it. “I was right there. Crying. And he looked at me like if he stayed, he’d break.”
Kayla’s voice is gentler now. “And that scared you.”
“It scared me,” I agree. “But it also hurt.”
She nods, like this is the most reasonable thing in the world.
“You didn’t chase him,” she says.
It’s not a question.
“No,” I admit. “I wanted to. God, I wanted to, but I didn’t.”
“Good,” she says confidently.
I blink, then look up at her. “Good?”
“Yes,” she says firmly. “Melissa, listen to me. You spent years holding yourself together for someone else. You arenot doing that again. Not even for a man who makes you feel what you feel.”
I swallow.
