Waiting.
He could have kept walking. Could have called Jake, or Hog, or anyone else who would have driven him home and helped him build righteous anger that made moving on easier. He could have blocked my number. Could have decided—reasonably, justifiably—that I wasn't worth the effort of standing in the cold.
Instead, he stood there.
I thought about his mouth. I remembered how it tasted at 3 a.m. when he was half-asleep, reaching for me. I couldn't forget the soft whimper he made when I pulled him closer—surprise and relief tangled together.
I wanted him here. Right now. I wanted to cross that parking lot and press him against the rusted tailgate and kiss him until neither of us remembered why we were fighting.
That wasn't what he needed.
The window fogged where my breath hit it. I wiped it clear with my sleeve.
Pickle's posture didn't change. He wasn't pacing or looking at his phone. He stood there, waiting.
The stakes crystallized with brutal clarity.
My text had bought me time. Nothing more. Pickle was waiting to see if I'd use it to come out there with the truth—or if I'd hide behind the request the way I'd hidden behindtrust meandI'm handling itand every other phrase I'd used to keep him at arm's length while pretending I was holding him close.
I reached for the door handle. Cold, industrial steel.
I pictured how it would go.
After pushing through the door, I'd cross the parking lot with my breath turning into misty clouds. Pickle would watch me coming. I'd stop in front of him, and I'd say—
What?
I'm sorry. I should have told you. I was trying to protect you.
He'd heard that already. In the storage alcove, with the fluorescent buzzing overhead, I'd said those words. They'd landed without changing anything.
Trust me. I'm working on it. Just give me more time.
More time. I kept asking for time. Kept promising that if he'd wait a little longer, I'd have answers. I'd have solutions. I'd have something better than the mess I'd made.
Time wasn't what Pickle needed from me.
He needed proof. He needed to know that when I said I was on his side, I meant it in ways that cost me something.
If I went out there now, I'd ask him to wait again.
Going to him with nothing but apologies and promises would repeat my pattern. It would be the same mistake I'd made with Theo. I'd held Theo at arm's length by keeping my fears to myself and deciding what he could handle. I loved him carefully, not honestly. When it fell apart, I'd told myself the lesson was about trust.
It wasn't. The lesson was about action.
Standing with my hand on the door handle, preparing to cross the parking lot and say all the right words didn't matter if I didn't back them with something real.
Pickle had stopped walking. He was giving me exactly what I'd asked for: a chance.
If I wasted that chance on another round oftrust me, I deserved to lose him.
I pulled my hand back.
If I want him to trust me, I have to earn it before I ask for it.
I set off down a corridor. Pickle was out there, waiting. And I was in the arena, walking away from him—not to escape, but to act.
I found an empty office near the media room. I sat in the dark at an empty desk and pulled out my phone.
