I wanted to ask questions. I wanted details so I could file them away and build a case in my own mind. That was my instinct. Gather information, identify the problem, and solve it. But this wasn't a renovation plan. This was Jane. And whatever happened with James, it had already happened.
So I kept it simple. “You deserve better.”
Jane’s breath fogged in front of her face as she exhaled. “I know.”
The way she said it told me she was still convincing herself.
We reached the far edge of the property where the light from the windows fell across the snow but didn't reach much farther. The town beyond was quiet, mostly dark, with only a few distant points of light.
I stopped and turned slightly so I could face her without blocking her path. I didn't want her to feel cornered. I just wanted to look at her properly.
“I didn't expect to feel this comfortable here,” I admitted.
Jane glanced over. “Why not?”
“Growing up, dinners were structured,” I continued. “Everyone had a role. Expectations were always present. I learned early that being agreeable made things easier.”
Jane’s expression softened as she watched me carefully, and I got the sense she wasn't judging. She was mapping. Jane seemed to understand people by collecting small truths and arranging them into something that made sense. “That sounds exhausting.”
“I was bullied when I was younger,” I added.
Jane’s eyes sharpened slightly. “Really?”
“Nothing dramatic,” I clarified. “Just enough to learn that being liked felt safer than being myself. That if I tried too hard, people noticed. And not in a good way.”
She turned to face me fully.
“That isn’t how I see you,” she said.
“I know,” I replied. “That is why this feels different.”
Jane studied me for a moment. “I never thought you were too much.”
The words settled slowly and stayed.
“Thank you,” I managed.
I meant it more than I could explain. I had been told, in a dozen ways over the years, that my enthusiasm was excessive. That I was too friendly. Too eager. Too open. Even when people liked me, they liked me with a correction attached.
Jane’s voice had no correction.
Snow continued to fall around us, quiet and steady.
Jane spoke after a moment. “I spent a long time believing that if I made myself useful enough, lovable enough, I would be chosen.”
There was no melodrama in her tone. No attempt to draw sympathy, simply that she was stating a fact she had lived with for a long time.
“You should never have had to earn that,” I said. “Not with anyone.”
Jane met my gaze. “I’m still learning to believe it.”
“That’s okay,” I replied. “I’m not in a hurry.”
Her expression flickered, like she wanted to accept that immediately and still couldn’t quite let herself.
“I’m not very good at this,” she admitted.
“At what?”
