I take a deep breath and squeeze her hand. “I think you’re wrong about all of this,” I tell her. “I think you’re taking on guilt that doesn’t belong to you, and I think you’re underestimating how much you mean tobothme and Chloe.”
I reach out and cup her face in my hand, wiping a tear away with my thumb. Her skin is warm and damp, and she leans into my palm.
“But I love you,” I continue. “And if this is what you want, time apart to think, then I’ll give you that time.”
She closes her eyes, more tears streaming down her face, and it takes everything in me not to pull her into my lap and hold her until she believes me.
“Thank you,” she whispers. “For understanding.”
“I don’t entirely understand,” I admit. “But I trust you and I trust us. Space isn’t going to change how I feel. I’ll still know that you’re the one I’m supposed to be with.”
She opens her eyes, and there’s so much pain and love and confusion in her expression that I want to shake her, want to kiss her, want to do something to make her see what’s so blindingly obvious to me. But I don’t. I just hold her face in my hands and let her feel how much I love her.
She stands up from the table, and I stand too, and then she’s in my arms, her face buried in my chest, her body shaking with quiet sobs. I hold her and stroke her hair and breathe her in—that apricot and vanilla scent that’s become home to me—trying to memorize exactly how this feels.
“I love you,” she says into my chest, her voice muffled.
“I love you too,” I tell her.
She steps back and gathers her things—her bag, her coat, theice skates she brought last night with such excitement. I watch her move through my house, collecting the pieces of herself she’d scattered here, and it feels like watching someone dismantle something precious. Something that took months to build, being taken apart in minutes.
I let her go.
It’s the hardest thing I’ve ever done, but I let her go.
Chloe’s with Victoria for the next few days, and I’m alone in a way I haven’t been in months. I keep picking up my phone to text Emma, my fingers hovering over the keyboard, then putting it down again because she asked for space and I have to respect that.
Every room in the house holds some trace of Emma, some memory of her laugh or her voice or the way she’d curl up on the couch with a book while I made dinner. I keep picking up my phone to text her, my fingers hovering over the keyboard, typing out messages I never send.I miss you. This is ridiculous.
Every part of me wants to drive to her apartment and sit with her and talk through this until she sees what I see, but that’s not what she needs right now. She needs room to think, to feel, to come to her own conclusions without me hovering. So I put the phone down. For the hundredth time today.
I end up in the garage, standing in front of the black walnut, Emma’s voice echoing in my head.Life’s too short to let beautiful things sit in a garage collecting dust.She’s the one who made me want to finish this project and make space in my life for more than work and responsibility and being everything to everyone except myself.
I run my hand over the grain, feeling the smooth wood beneath my palm. I’ve always found it meditative working with my hands, shaping raw material into something beautiful. I pickup the sanding block and get to work, hoping the repetitive motion will quiet my thoughts.
It doesn’t, not really, but it gives me something to focus on besides the ache in my chest. The worry that won’t let go and the fear that Emma might talk herself into believing she’s doing the right thing by walking away.
The sound of tires on gravel pulls me out of my thoughts.
I look through the garage window to see Dom’s black BMW pulling into the driveway, the afternoon sun glinting off the windshield. Right—he mentioned he’d swing by to return the circular saw he borrowed last week and grab the belt sander I said he could use for some project at the gym. Dom’s always improving something, always moving forward.
I set down the sanding block and wipe my hands on my jeans as Dom climbs out of his car. He’s dressed in his usual uniform, dark pants and a black t-shirt, and still somehow looks intimidating. He grabs the circular saw from his trunk and walks toward me.
“What the hell happened to you?” he asks bluntly, setting the saw down on the workbench with a solid thunk. “You look like someone ran over your dog.”
“Thanks, Dom.” I turn back to the wood, picking up the sanding block again. “Always a pleasure to bask in your warmth and sensitivity.”
He shrugs, crossing his arms and leaning against the workbench. “You know I’m not good at the whole feelings thing. But even I can tell something’s wrong.” He pauses. “You want to talk about it, or you want me to just grab the sander and get out of your hair?”
That’s Dom. Blunt, direct, no bullshit. He’s not one for emotional conversations, but he’s also not the type to pretend he doesn’t notice when something’s wrong. I set down the sanding block and run a hand through my hair, trying to figure out where to even start.
“Things with Emma are complicated right now,” I say finally. “She asked for space.”
“Space?” He raises his brows. “Why?”
I lean against the workbench next to him, staring at the black walnut instead of at his face. It’s easier to talk this way, both of us looking at the same thing, not having to make eye contact.
“Victoria showed up at the restaurant the other night out of nowhere. She apologized for the affair, said she regrets leaving, and wants to move back to Dark River to be closer to Chloe.” I pause, gathering my thoughts. “Emma walked in while we were talking and saw Victoria’s hand on my arm. And now she’s convinced herself that she’s somehow standing in the way of Chloe having her mom back. That if she steps aside, Victoria and I might get back together and give Chloe the whole family she supposedly wants.”
