Page 178 of Suite 7

She doesn’t say anything for a long moment. Just sits there with her hands around her cup.

Then: “Is this actually love? Or are you both caught up in something?”

“I knew it was real because of you. Because the thought of losing you over it — that’s what broke me. You don’t grieve like that over something that isn’t love.”

She absorbs that. Then she’s crying.

“I can’t lose you the way I lost Sidney.” Her voice goes raw. “I can’t do that again.”

“You won’t.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do.” I take her hand. This time she lets me. “Because I’m not Sidney. I’m not going anywhere, Sloane. I’ll fight for this — for you, for us — for as long as it takes.”

She doesn’t say anything. Just sits there crying, her hand in mine, not pulling away.

Which is more than I let myself hope for.

“Both permanent,” she says finally.

“Yes. You and me. Him and me. Both. Non-negotiable.”

“Even if I’m weird about it for a while?” Her voice is steadier now but the fear underneath it is still there. “Even if I need time before I can be in the same room as both of you without wanting to scream?”

“Even then.” I tighten my grip. “You’re stuck with me, Sloane.”

Something cracks open in her face. A laugh comes through the tears — small, broken, entirely real.

“I missed you,” she says.

“I missed you too.” My throat tightens. “Every single day.”

We sit there with our hands linked across the table, both of us crying, the coffee gone cold between us, the noise of the street carrying on outside like none of this is happening.

After a while she takes a breath. Steadies.

“No more secrets,” she says. “About anything. Ever.”

“No more secrets. I promise.”

She nods. Then slowly, like she’s not quite ready but she is, she pulls her hand back.

“We’re not okay yet,” she says. “But we’re getting there.”

“I’ll take getting there.”

She wipes her face. Takes a sip of cold coffee and grimaces.

For one small second it’s almost normal.

We both stand. Face each other across the table, neither of us moving, and I don’t reach for her because it has to be her choice, it has to come from her.

Then she opens her arms. Hesitant. Uncertain.

I step into them carefully, not presuming too much, and she holds me — not as tight as she used to, not yet, but she holds on, and I press my face into her shoulder and let myself feel the full weight of what it means that she’s doing this at all.

“I love you,” I whisper.