"So you're what? Going to fix yourself in Boston and come back some perfect version of Caleb Miller?"
"No, I just . . ." I shift my weight and crack my knuckles. "I need to learn how to show up for people.Reallyshow up, not just when it's easy or fun, or doesn't require actual emotional intelligence."
"And Ivy?"
My chest tightens at her name. I know leaving without talking to her is completely shit. I know she deserves better than me disappearing like a coward. Ivy would probably call it emotional avoidance or some other therapy term she picked up from one of her self-help books. It would be right, too. But the truth is, I can't look at her right now. Not after she asked for boundaries. Not when she made it clear we're done. I'd just make it worse. Say the wrong thing again.
"I'm not saying goodbye to her."
"Dumbass."
"Probably." I meet his eyes, hating myself for the choice I'm making. "Or maybe for once I'm being honest about not being ready. She deserves someone who knows how to love her properly, not someone who's still learning how to show up for himself."
"You love her though."
"Yeah." The word scrapes out. That's the worst part—I do love her. Love her enough to know I'd just hurt her again if I tried to fix this before fixing myself. "Which is exactly why I can't face her right now."
Brodie studies me for a long moment. "A month ago, you would've made a dick joke to avoid this entire conversation."
"Growth, right?" I try for a smile. "Though I did consider it. Multiple times."
"Progress, not perfection." He leans back in his chair. "So, what do you want me to tell her?"
"Just . . . goodbye, I guess. That I hope someday, when I've got my shit together, maybe . . ." I trail off, throat tight. "But I can't ask her to wait. That wouldn't be fair."
"No, it wouldn't." Brodie's voice is gentle. "I'm proud of you though. For finally facing your shit. For taking this chance. Even if your method of saying goodbye is still slightly chickenshit."
"Baby steps." I stand up. "Besides, some things need to stay broken for a while. Otherwise, you just keep patching them wrong."
"When did you get wise?"
"Probably around the time my best friend ended up in the hospital because none of us knew how to have real conversations." I swallow hard. "Speaking of . . . take care of him for me? I know you already are, but . . ."
"Always." Brodie stands, pulling me into a quick hug. "And hey, you can call too, you know. When it gets scary, or Boston feels too big, or you need someone to remind you why you're doing this."
"Even if it's the middle of the night?"
"Even then."
I head for the door, pausing with my hand on the handle. "Hey, Brodie?"
"Yeah?"
"Thank you. For putting up with my shit."
"Go, we'll all be here when you're ready to come home."
The bell chimes behind me, and the pressure I've been holding breaks, slipping free. It's not an ending, not really. More like a beginning. A chance to become someone worthy of the love I've been too scared to accept.
A week can changeeverything and nothing at all. Mid-July heat shimmers off the pavement as Amelia loops her arm through mine, and there have been no calls, no messages from Caleb. It shouldn't surprise me. He's always been good at avoiding. Still, I thought this time might be different.
"If you check your phone one more time, I'm throwing it in traffic." Amelia steers me around a couple making out against Brookside Books' window display. "That's the eighth check in ten minutes. I'm starting to worry about repetitive stress injury."
"I wasn't—"
"Save it." She tugs me closer, her voice softening. "Today is about my pre-birthday crisis, because after everything with James, an actual celebration feels . . ." She trails off, swallowing hard, "wrong. Like tempting fate, or something equally stupid and superstitious."
"Your birthday's not for another week," I point out, but she waves this off with her free hand.
