Page 30 of One Night with Number Nineteen

Alarm bells blare through my mind, but I find myself allowing him in anyway. “There's nothing to tell, really. We got together very young. We had Ollie.” I run my finger over the curve of the handle. “Then he got sick and died.”

He doesn’t speak for a long time.

Neither do I.

Until he asks, “Were you happy?”

It's such an innocent question. Yet, it’s one that makes the guilt tear through me again.

Because it’s yes and it’s…no. Or maybe not as happy as I should have been.

“Yes,” I say. “In the beginning I was. But we were so young and over time everything just got really messed up.”

Another blip of quiet.

Then his words are so soft, they barely reach my ears. “I know what that's like.”

“You do?” I ask, shock rippling through me.

“Yeah, I do.” He stares down at his feet. “There was a girl when I was just starting out, someone who I thought would be by my side for…everything, I guess.”

My heart spasms.

“And it turned out that the people that we became just weren't compatible anymore.” His mouth curves into a sad smile. “Sometimes love isn't enough, is it?”

I pick up my mug, take another sip of hot chocolate. “No,” I murmur. “No, it's not.”

Then there’s no more talking.

We just sip our hot chocolates and eat some cookies. And I do it not thinking about the strange man from the parking lot. Not thinking about Ben and all the ways that he disappointed me.

Instead, I’m thinking about what life could have been like.

Because I’m sitting here with a man who I don’t love, who I can’t claim to know all that well and…I’m having more of an honest conversation with him than I ever had with the man I loved and married and made a kid with.

God, what would it have been like to have waited, to have not⁠—

Slam!

The walls crash down around that thought.

Because if my life hadn't been my life, I wouldn't have Ollie. I wouldn't be here now.

And that's not acceptable.

Not even as a dumb thought exercise.

As if sensing the change in my mood, Sawyer turns and places his mug in the sink. Then comes over as though he’s going to grab mine.

But I shoot to my feet, walk by him and do it myself, rinsing both and putting them in the dishwasher.

Something bristles inside me when he puts the uneaten cookies back into the container and snaps on the lid and I all but snatch the plate from him, rinsing that too.

He lingers at my side for a moment. “I’ll leave you to the rest of your night,” he murmurs.

I nod. “Yeah, thanks,” I say. And it's too brusque. Too rude for all he's done for me tonight—for how long he stayed, for the care he showed me.

But I can't seem to stop myself.