Page 20 of Choosing Samantha

“There was an emergency in Frankfurt, but there were phones there. I could have called. I didn’t because I was overwhelmed and because waking up next to you made me realize how much I had to lose.”

“That isn’t an excuse.”

“No. It’s the truth, and the truth doesn’t absolve me.”

She wraps her arms around herself. “I thought you got what you wanted and left.”

“I wanted you long before we went upstairs. I left because I was terrified of how much that night meant.” I want to reach out to her, but I stay put. “The retainer has been canceled,” I say. “The agency will pay you the full amount anyway. I’ve also removed every permission associated with your profile. The phone is yours, unconditionally. None of that requires you to forgive me.”

“What do you want?”

“You.” The word comes out rough and raw. “Not as an escort. Not as an employee. Not as someone whose choices I can buy. I want the woman who wore a flowered sundress into a room full of designer labels and made everyone else look dull. I want the artist who taught my niece that changing shape isn’t the same as failing.” I swallow hard. “I love you, Samantha.”

A tear slides down beneath her mask. “You barely know me.”

“Then let me spend years learning.”

Her breath catches in her throat. “I don’t know if I can trust you.”

“I understand.”

“You hurt me.”

“I know.”

“I’m still angry.”

“You should be.”

I step back, even though it nearly wrecks me. “I won’t steal you away or pressure you. If you want me to leave, I will.”

The orchestra begins a slow waltz. Samantha looks toward the open doors, then back at me. “One dance,” she says. “It isn’t forgiveness.”

“One dance.” I hold out my hand—she places hers in mine, and for the first time in six days, eighteen hours, fifty-three minutes, and twelve seconds, I believe everything will work out.

Epilogue - Samantha

One Year Later

Ayear later, Arch stands behind me in the glass studio, sleeves rolled up, wearing a pair of safety glasses that keep slipping down his nose.

“You’re holding the pipe too tightly,” I say, laughing at his technique.

“I’m preventing it from falling.”

“You’re strangling it.”

“It’s metal.”

“The glass can feel your tension.”

“The glass doesn’t have a nervous system.”

I smile. “Trust the process.”

“I trust you.”

Those words mean something different now—trust didn’t return all at once at the masked ball. We rebuilt it slowly. Arch started seeing a therapist. He learned to ask before helping. I realized I could forgive him without pretending his choices hadn’t hurt me.