Page 53 of His Second Chance (Love Comes To Town)

I squeeze his hand, but it’s as rigid as a chair leg. “Then just take this tour and swear off anything else.”

“It’s not that easy,” he says.

When I don’t answer, he adds, “That’s what happened to my parents.”

I don’t say a word. I hardly breathe. Emerson never liked to talk about it. But now...

“They were crazy in love too,” he says. “Held hands everywhere, and my dad treated her like a queen. But he had to go away for work, and Mom hated traveling, so they’d be apart for a few weeks at a time. Unless a deal went sour and Dad had to do damage control and stay a month or two. And then his trips started lasting months at a time. That’s when he started cheating on her, during those long spans apart. It didn’t make it right, what he did. But they were fine until they decided to try doing long-distance long-term.” His steady gaze meets mine. “They were fine until they decided to put work over their relationship.”

I glare right back at him. “What are you saying, that if we go long-distance now, you’ll end up cheating on me?”

“No, hell no,” he says, scowling even deeper. “Just that’s it’s an added stress. A really fucking big one.”

Seeing the firm lines of his face now, I realize it. That my bringing it up again has only dug Emerson’s feet in deeper.

Shit.

When I move my face close to him, my voice comes out a whisper. “You made a sacrifice for me once. Why can’t you let me do the same for you?”

His gaze wavers. He closes his eyes and exhales.

Finally, he turns away. “Because you wouldn’t be better off for it this time. I’m not willing to risk what we have. Not again.”

His back to me, he says, “And that’s final,” to the wall.

I sit there. I wait.

For what, I’m not sure, only it’s not for him to lie down without another word.

It’s not for me to stare into the dark, wondering what the hell I’m going to do now.

It takes a few minutes for it to hit me.

That it really is final.

I lie down. Pull the sheet up to my shoulder. Close my eyes as if I were going to sleep.

But I don’t go to sleep.

The quiet is just blank space for my mind to talk over.

My mind has words—oh, it has words.

Like, You can’t let this happen. You know this isn’t right.

Round and round and round they go, everything I should’ve said—No, what I said is final, I won’t let you give this up for me, everything I should’ve done—left for emphasis, looked into leaving tomorrow, and his probable reactions—frustration, incredulity, maybe even rage.

I lie here thinking of all the things I should’ve said and done. All the things it’s too late to say and do.

He said it himself—that’s final.

I saw it, too, the finality written on every part of Emerson’s face.

Worst of all, I know it.

There’d be no point staying the rest of the week here at the resort with him.

I won’t get through to him. Nothing will.

If I want to do the right thing, make the right choice, I’ll have to do it alone.

And I’ll have to do it now.

My knees tense.

Somewhere amid the battle royale between what I should do, leave, and what I want to do, stay, I fall asleep.

I wake up to the soft sound of music. So soft, I normally would’ve slept right through it.

I peek one eye open.

It’s dark. There’s a silhouette through the clear glass of the closed sliding door.

It’s him.

He’s inclined on a hammock, the moonlight casting his features into semi-visibility. He’s got his keyboard in his lap, and he’s playing.

I strain to hear, to join the notes to a song I’ve heard before, but I can’t.

It’s a new song, a beautiful song.

And one glance at his face and it’s obvious. He’s loving every minute of it.

That is what focus looks like. Joy.

That is what he’s giving up for me.

I can’t let him.

I close my eyes against the tears. If only I could close them against this... this decision I have to make.

Sometimes, love means doing what they won’t for themselves. Doing things that will hurt you, hurt them.

I can’t take that away from him. Not for all the safety and security in the world.

And so, I lie there as the tears escape my closed eyelids as if my decision hasn’t been made for me. As if, by sleeping, somehow, this will all get better.

Next time I wake up, there’s a warmth, a safety in me that knows he’s right there beside me.

It’s insidious, this warmth. Like a blanket muffling what I need to do.

I know that if I let myself ease into it, let myself wrap my arms around him, even let myself doze off, it’s over.

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