Page 46 of You, Only You

The fear was the same size. But I was bigger than I'd been two hours ago. Not because I'd done something brave or strategic or impressive. Because I'd sat still. Because I'd called my sister instead of building a plan. Because I'd walked onto a balcony and stood next to a woman I'd hurt and let her decide whether to reach for me.

She'd reached.

That didn't fix anything, she'd said so herself. But it was enough to stand on. Enough to build from. Enough to face tomorrow.

"We should go inside," Lindsey murmured against my shoulder. "It's freezing and I have cracked ribs."

"You could have said something earlier."

"I didn't want to move."

Four words. They hit me harder than anything she'd said all day. Harder than the tracking app confrontation, harder than the 'there won't be a third time.' Because those words had been about what was wrong between us. These were about what was right.

I didn't want to move.

Neither did I. But her ribs were cracked and the night was cold and tomorrow we were going to turn a man's gambling addiction into a key that unlocked a trafficking ring, and that required sleep, which required going inside, which required letting go of her hand.

"Come on," I said, and walked her to the balcony door, and opened it, and let the warm air rush over us.

She paused on the threshold. Looked up at me. In the light from the apartment, her face was tired and bruised and honest, and she was the most important person in my life. I knew that with the kind of certainty I usually reserved for evidence and legal precedent. I knew it the way I knew case law: absolutely, irrevocably, without room for appeal.

"Goodnight, Will."

"Goodnight."

She went to the guest room. I went to mine. Separate doors. Separate spaces. The distance was appropriate and necessary and I hated every inch of it.

But I didn't go to her door. Didn't press my hand against it. Didn't check the security cameras. Didn't do any of the things the old version of me would have done to shrink the distance by force.

I lay in bed and I let the distance be distance. Let the fear be fear. Let the night be long.

Somewhere around 2 AM, my phone buzzed. A text from Lindsey:

I can't sleep either. But I'm not coming to your door because boundaries are important and I'm very mature.

I stared at the message. Then typed back:

I'm extremely mature. I haven't checked the security cameras once.

Proud of you. That's growth.

Nicole called it a miracle.

It's at least a solid B+. Goodnight for real.

Goodnight for real.

I put the phone down. Pressed my face into the pillow. And smiled, which was not something I'd expected to do today.

The fear was still there. The guilt was still there. The knowledge that I'd broken something and it wasn't fully repaired was still there.

But so was a text thread with a woman who couldn't sleep either, who was being very mature about boundaries, who'd held my hand on a balcony and said she didn't want to move.

Tomorrow would be hard. The Mendez operation. The danger. The ongoing, grinding work of earning back trust I'd squandered.

But tonight, for the first time since the tracking app, something in my chest felt like it might, eventually, unclench.

B+, she'd said. I could work with a B+.