My throat tightens and my breath comes thin. Hurt and hope collide inside me, pushing against each other until it feels like the room is too small to hold both.
I close my eyes. His voice lives in every line. Not polished, not careful, not trying to impress me. Just true.
And as much as I wish I could deny it, I believe him.
That might be the part that hurts the most.
I curl my knees to my chest on the hotel bed, forehead resting against them, holding the letter like it might steady me. The ache is quiet now. It settles deep, not sharp, not loud, but heavy. A weight I cannot shake by pretending I do not feel it.
I want to go to him. I want to yell at him. I want to collapse into his arms and feel his heartbeat under my cheek again. I want too many things at once, and none of them cancel out the others.
So I stay here. Breathing through it instead of running from it.
My phone buzzes on the nightstand. June’s name lights up the screen, snapping me back into the room.
June:
Be right up. Bus leaves in 30.
I wipe my cheeks with my sleeve and exhale slowly. I do not want to hide. I am tired of curling into the pain like it is the only truth. But I am not ready to walk back to him just because he asked. I need to know the choice is mine, not born from fear of losing him, not from longing alone.
I refold the letter and slip it inside my backpack.
“I need clarity,” I whisper into the quiet. My voice shakes, but it does not break. “I need to know I am choosing him. Not the memory of him, not the hope of him, but the man who wrote that letter.”
I stand and place both feet on the carpet. The sure, solid feel of it holds me, and I breathe into that steadiness until my chest loosens. I am not running. I am not falling apart.
I am feeling this. I am staying in it. I am learning where I stand and what I want.
And when I make that choice, it will be real.
Chapter 37
Thiago walks beside me, talking on and on about shite I couldn’t repeat if you paid me. Normally, I’d throw comments back, wind him up for sport, but today, nothing sticks in my head except her.
Did she read my letter?
Will she forgive me?
Will I ever get to touch her again?
We drift through the hotel lobby. I stop because muscle memory tells me to—sign shirts, smile for pictures, shake hands like I’m not falling apart inside. My body performs the role, but my mind is somewhere else, trapped in the hope she might still choose me.
The doors slide open, and the cold Portland air meets my face. The lads bunch near the bus, quieter than usual. Then I see why.
June stands near the steps, phone up, recording. The players stall and joke, giving her content, moving slower than necessary.
And beside her …
Catalina.
My heart flips, trying to claw its way out of my chest.
She stands in a soft sweater, hair loose around her shoulders, handing something to each of the boys while June films. She looks tired, but steady, holding herself with a quiet strength that makes me want to fall to my knees in the street.
Thiago reaches her first with a grin.
“What do you have for me?”
