“You’re not fighting to keep her. You’re fighting to be the guy she deserved before she left.”
I almost smile. “Even if it’s mostly just to get us in the same room?”
He chuckles softly. “Yeah. The underlying goal is genuine. You love her. Even she won’t be able to deny that.”
I don’t say anything. But the weight of that truth hits harder than any defensive lineman tonight.
My arm throbs under the wrap, but I don’t reach for anything. I let it burn.
I didn’t get the tattoo for her—not exactly. But she’s a part of it. In the art, the meaning. A reminder of who I was when I lost her, who I am now, and who I want to be.
This pain? I earned it.
This time, I stay with it.
I’d live in the discomfort every day if it meant proving to Alley that she’s worth it.
I pullmy shirt over my head and toss it in the hamper with my pants. Grabbing the balm for my tattoo, I dip my finger in, gather a gob, and rub it in. My gaze lands on the stack of letters I wrote in rehab.
Every Sunday in group therapy, we wrote a letter. It could be to anyone. Send it or don’t—didn’t matter. Just write.
There’s a lot of healing in writing. Nina always encouraged us to pick someone new each week, even ourselves.
I never did.
I wrote twelve letters.
All to Alley.
I didn’t send a single one. It never felt right.
I pick them up, flipping through until I find the one from November second. The hardest one I ever wrote. It was the Sunday after they told me she’d filed for divorce. I’ll never forget that day. The dust had started to settle. I was beginning to understand what I’d done—where I’d been. Where I still had togo. There was finally light at the end of the tunnel. Then they sat me down on October thirtieth and told me she filed.
The realization that no matter what I did from that moment on, it still might not be enough. I could lose it all anyway.
I set the letters back down with a sigh and comb a hand through my hair.
I want her to read them, someday. I want to tell her everything. About rehab. Therapy. The process and how she helped me through it. God, every day, she helped me push through. Still does.
I slide into bed, phone in hand, and catch up on work emails. Then I open my messages and go to the thread with Alley.
The message I sent her earlier after Matt left stares back at me.
I want to respect your wishes. I won’t show up at your door. I won’t push. But I need you to know, I miss you so goddamn much it physically hurts. I miss hanging out with you. Doing nothing. Laughing our asses off. Holding your hand. Spooning. The way you make me feel—how you make me want to be a better man. I miss your voice. Your laugh. Your smile. The way your dimple makes me feel like it’s the first time seeing you, every damn time. I miss watching football with you. I miss you, Alley. Every part of you. You say you don’t trust yourself to see me? Baby, I don’t trust a single inch of me not to show you how sorry I am. I love you. I’m not asking you to say it back. I’m only asking for the chance to prove it.
She left it on read.
My throat swells, eyes blinking fast.
I’m trying to stay positive. But damn, it’s getting harder. Every day feels like I’m drifting farther from the end goal.
I plug in my phone, turn off the lamp, and roll to my side—the hardest part of my day staring back at me.
Darkness.
Nighttime.
Sleep.
