Delete it.
Type:Can we meet?
Delete that too.
Type:I love you. I was scared and I fucked up and I love you.
My thumb hovers over send for thirty seconds before I delete that one as well.
What do I say? How do I respond to her kindness with anything less than the truth? How do I explain that I've been terrified since the moment I met her? That she makes me want things I've never let myself want? That loving her feels like stepping off a cliff without knowing if there's ground below?
And how do I admit that I've been reading her messages for twenty-four hours and haven't had the courage to answer?
I put the phone down. Stand. Pace the small room like a caged animal.
The charity game is tomorrow. I'll see her there. Have to face her. Have to look her in the eye and see what I've done.
The question isn't whether I love her. I know the answer to that. Have known it for weeks. Fell for her somewhere between catching her when she fell off that ladder and watching her light up the Christmas market, between late nights in her shop and quiet mornings building snowmen with Maisie.
The question is whether love is enough to undo the damage. Whether she'll even give me the chance to try.
I look at the album one more time. At Lucy's face in every photo. At the evidence of someone who saw me—really saw me—and chose me anyway.
She was trying to tell me. Trying to show me there was another path. One that didn't require sacrifice. One that included both the dream and the girl.
I was too scared to see it.
But I see it now. Clear as the ice I've spent my life on. Clear as the truth I've been running from.
I'm in love with her. And I'm done running.
The decision settles in my chest. Heavy and terrifying and absolutely right.
I grab my phone. Text Greg:I'm ready to talk. Call me when you can. I know what I want.
The options I'm thinking about have nothing to do with negotiating terms. Everything to do with asking if there's any way to make this work without leaving Pine Hollow. Without leaving her.
I send it before I can overthink.
Then I sit with the album in my lap and wait for dawn, fear wrapped around my ribs.
I don't know if Greg can find a solution. Don't know if Lucy will forgive me for the silence. For reading her texts and not responding. For making her wait while I figured out what she already knew.
But I know I have to try.
Because the alternative—spending the rest of my life running from the only person who ever made me want to stay—is something I can't survive.
Morning comes slow. I haven't slept. Haven't moved from the chair by the window. Watched the sky go from black to gray to the pale gold of winter sunrise.
Greg responds at six:Call me at nine. We'll figure something out.
Figure something out. Like this is just another contract negotiation. But it's not. It's my entire life. The choice between the path I've always walked and the one I'm terrified to try.
I open the album one more time. Stop on that last photo. The way I'm looking at her in that picture—that's not something I can fake. Not career ambition or physical attraction or temporary connection.
That's the truth I've been too scared to admit.
And I hurt her. Because I was too much of a coward to choose her when it mattered.
