Page 83 of I’m Already Gone

My soulmate.

My sunshine.

And I am not going to let her go. Not again. Not ever. I will fight for her. For us.

“I’ll drop you off at the front entrance and find a parking spot. You’ll wait for me, right? So I can walk in with you?” I ask, pulling the car into the short-term drop-off lane outside the clinic the next morning.

Lily offers a small, tired smile. “You don’t have to come inside.”

“What if I want to,” I counter, trying to keep the edge of neediness out of my voice.

She turns her head slowly, scanning my face. I lean slightly toward her, giving her my best, pathetic “please let me” look.

A soft chuckle escapes her rosy lips. It’s brief, but it sounds like the Lily I remember.

“Fine,” she mutters, shaking her head.

I smile in victory.

She steps out of the vehicle, and I wait until she is safely inside before pulling away. After what feels like ten minutes of circling the parking lot, I finally find a spot.

I jog through the sliding doors, spotting Lily standing at the reception desk. A knot tightens in my gut. My eyes track the slight tremor in her hands as she reaches into her purse for a disposable mask.

“Here, let me,” I say, catching up to her. I take the flimsy blue mask from her hand and loop it over her ears, adjusting the wire to fit snugly over the bridge of her nose.

Her eyes slightly crinkle in the corners, hinting at a smile beneath the mask. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Let’s find a seat.”

We find two cozy plush chairs in a remote corner, away from the other patients.

My eyes wander around the room, taking in faces etched with worry, hope, and despair. Men and women of all ages, some holding hands with their loved ones or friends, and others who stare blankly ahead.

I lean forward, bracing my elbows on my knees, briefly burying my face in my hands. The guilt is a physical ache, centered right below my ribs.

“You really don’t have to stay if it’s too much for you,” Lily says quietly. “I can call an Uber when I’m done.”

My head jerks up. “I’m staying,” I declare, meeting her gaze with a determination that feels almost aggressive.

She sighs. “I appreciate you doing this, Ethan, but you don’t have to. As long as you are there for the kids, that will bring me peace when I’m g—” She stops abruptly, swallowing hard, looking away toward the window.

“Don’t,” I cut in, my voice low and rough. “Please. Don’t talk like that, Lily.”

“It’s the truth,” she insists, gesturing vaguely around the room, “the reality of all of this. I know you feel guilty, Ethan.”

“Of course it’s guilt,” I admit, leaning back, keeping my eyes locked on hers. “And yeah, it probably sounds like the most cliché thing a screw-up ex-husband could say, but it’s the truth, and frankly, it’s the only damn thing I have left to offer right now.”

I let out a sigh and add, “I was lost. I felt like I was running in place at the time of our marriage, and I thought more money, more success, would fill the emptiness I was feeling, but it didn’t.”

“But you had me, and the kids,” she whispers, her voice cracking slightly. “At the time, it seemed like we weren’t enough for you.”

“You were. You are. I can’t fix the past, though God knows I want to rewind time, but I can be a better man for the present and the future. I broke us. I know that now, Lily, but I can fix the present and the future.”

“Where was this years ago when you were changing the locks on our life?” Her eyes glisten, but she blinks quickly, refusing to let the tears fall. Her voice trembles. “I don’t need your pity, Ethan. I’ve been doing just fine without you.”

I shake my head slowly. “It isn’t pity. I’m grieving, Lily. I spent every night thinking back to what the hell went wrong years ago. I know it’s my fault—I own that. But I hate seeing you like this.” I take her hand in mine. “I should’ve gotten my head out of my ass and fought for you then. For us.”

I squeeze her hand lightly, my thumb brushing her knuckles. “I am so sorry, Lily. For failing you and for failing the kids. But I promise you I won’t fail you again. I won’t.”