“It doesn’t have to be all or nothing.”
“It does.” The way he said it made her flinch.
“I could visit,” she said, grasping. “We could make it work.”
Gage exhaled, dragging a hand down his face before looking at her again. “I’ve been working sixty-hour weeks since I graduated. London will only get worse. And you’d be here.”
“I can make it work,” she whispered.
His throat bobbed. “You think I can fly back and forth?”
Bea blinked. “I?—”
“Sweetheart…” He shook his head slowly, his voice rasping. “You think I can fly sixteen hours every other weekend, because I miss you?”
It was cruel. And true.
Her arms folded around her stomach, as she tried to hold herself together. “So…what? That’s it?”
There was a war in his eyes. She saw it. Felt it. And still, he didn’t move.
Because he was Gage….and Gage didn’t break.
“You’re not the one who has to decide, Bea. I already did.”
Bea felt it then. The slow, sickening tear of something that had once been whole. A future slipping through her fingers.
“Don’t do this,” she choked. “Please.”
Gage didn’t move. Like movement itself might shatter him. “I have to.”
Her vision blurred. She wanted to be selfish. To find a way to blame him for letting her go too easily.
But she didn’t. Because she loved him.
She wouldn’t ask him to be less than he was. And he didn’t deserve to be resented for the life he’d laid at her feet.
A tear slipped down her cheek. She didn’t move to wipe it away.
Gage’s fingers twitched, just barely. Like he wanted to reach for her, but he didn’t.
“You can’t just decide for me.”
“I didn’t.” He met her eyes. “You did.”
This time, the silence stayed.
It came into focus all at once: love wasn’t the problem. It just wasn’t enough.
So they sat there. In the place where their love had always felt so sure.
And watched it break.
GAGE
Gage didn’t go home. He just drove.
Nowhere in particular, just through the streets of St. Ives—past shuttered cafés, cobblestones, gabled rooftops leaning into the night.
