“There’s nothing to talk about. You made a massive decision about my life without asking me. You’ve been paying for my security while letting me believe I earned it. That’s not love, Scott. That’s control dressed up in good intentions.”
“It’s not control. I just wanted you to be safe. I was going to lower your rent back to the original amount after the event. I didn’t want to tell you before the event because it was motivating you to make it better and it would benefit your shop anyway.”
“You wanted to keep me safe from what? From having to fight my own battles or agency over my own business?” I laugh, and it sounds bitter even to me. “You’re no different from him. You just hide it better.”
The words are cruel. I know they are, even as I say them.
But I can’t stop.
Because I just realized I loved him, and now I’m realizing I don’t know if I can trust him, and the whiplash is too much.
“I need to go,” I say.
“Jessica—”
“Don’t follow me.”
I grab my bag—leave the book, leave the umbrella, leave the grapes—and I walk away.
Behind me, I can hear Penelope’s delighted commentary. David’s self-satisfied silence. Scott calling my name once, twice, then stopping.
I don’t look back.
I make it to the boardwalk before the tears start.
I arrive at my apartment before I let myself fall apart.
Austen meets me at the door, takes one look at my face, and does something he’s never done before—he headbutts my ankle and follows me to the couch, curling up against my side like he knows I need the weight of something warm and alive.
I cry until I can’t breathe. Until my eyes are swollen and my throat hurts and I’ve used up an entire box of tissues that I had to dig out from under my bathroom sink.
I was going to tell him I loved him, say the words, finally, after all these months of dancing around each other. After all the letters and the almost-kisses and the slow, terrifying process of letting someone see me again.
And then Penelope’s voice, dripping with satisfaction:Your boyfriend bought your building.
And David’s voice, dripping with condescension:Same old Jessica.
And Scott’s voice, desperate and confused:I was trying to protect you.
Protect me.
Like I’m something fragile. Something that needs handling.
I think about all the decisions David made for me during our marriage. The vacations I didn’t choose. The friends I didn’t pick. The version of myself I became because it was easier than fighting for my own voice.
And I think about Scott, buying my building without telling me. Fixing my problems without asking if I wanted them fixed. Deciding what was best for my life without including me in the decision.
He did it from love. I believe that.
But isn’t that what David always said too?
I’m doing this for us, Jess. I’m handling it because I love you.
The question I can’t answer, the one that keeps me awake until three in the morning with Austen purring against my chest, is this:
Where is the line between protection and control?
And how do I love a man when I can’t tell which side of that line he’s on?
