She doesn’t interrupt.
“I used to tell myself it was discipline,” I continue. “Commitment. Dedication. But lately, it feels like … avoidance.”
Her fingers curl lightly into my shirt at my waist.
“That’s a big thing to admit,” she says softly.
I nod. “I don’t think I would have noticed it if you weren’t here.”
Her gaze holds mine. “Does that scare you?” she asks.
The honest answer comes easier than it used to. “Yes.”
She smiles gently. “Good.”
I bark out a laugh. “That’s not reassuring.”
“It is,” she says. “It means you’re paying attention.”
I stare up at the ceiling.
“When I was younger,” I say slowly, “I thought if I stayed busy enough, focused enough, I wouldn’t feel things as sharply.”
“And did it work?” she asks.
“For a while,” I admit. “Or at least I convinced myself it did.”
She shifts, turning fully toward me now, her knee pressing into my thigh.
“And now?”
I look at her—reallylook at her.
“Now I notice when I’m tired,” I say. “I notice when I’m lonely. I notice that I haven’t taken a real vacation in years.”
Her eyebrows lift. “Years?”
“I honestly don’t remember the last one,” I say. “Not a conference. Not a donor dinner in a different city … an actual vacation.”
“That’s … not healthy,” she says carefully.
“I know.”
She studies me for a moment. “Do you want one?”
The question is simple, but something about it cracks open a door I didn’t realize was closed.
“Yes,” I say without hesitation. “I do.”
Her smile grows. “Where would you go?”
I shrug, deflecting instinctively. “I don’t know. Somewhere quiet. Somewhere slow.”
She tilts her head, considering. “You don’t strike me as a beach guy.”
I snort. “I burn.”
She laughs. “Figures.”
