“The radio’s been quiet,” he said finally. “Since you left. Whatever connection was there—I think it’s fading.”
“That’s not?—”
“It’s probably for the best.” He shifted slightly, hand on the door frame. Ready to close it. “You have a lot going on. A lot of options.”
The word landed like a slap.
“I’m not here about options. I’m here about you.”
“Am I not an option?” His voice was flat, careful. “Another match on your phone. Another possibility to consider. Another door to keep open in case something better comes along.”
“That’s not fair.”
“Isn’t it?” He met my eyes, and there was something there I hadn’t seen before—hurt, maybe. Or resignation. “You come here for quiet. For escape. When your phone gets too loud and your life gets too chaotic, you show up at my shop and sit in my chair and drink my tea. And then you leave. Back to the chaos. Back to the options.”
“I almost kissed you.”
“Almost.” The word was bitter. “We almost kissed. And then your phone screamed and a man in a leisure suit appeared with a mix tape, and you left. Again.”
“I didn’t have a choice?—”
“You had a choice. You could have stayed. You could have told Greg to go away. You could have come back, after.” His jaw tightened. “But you didn’t. You went home. And I spent the night alone, wondering if any of it meant anything, or if I was just another quiet place for you to hide.”
“Marcus—”
“I can’t do this.” He stepped back, hand on the door. “I can’t be your maybe. Your possibly. Your ‘let me think about it while I entertain five thousand other options.’”
“I’m not?—”
“You ARE.” His voice cracked, and suddenly the careful composure was gone. “That’s what you DO, Diane. You keep everything open. You never close a door. You’ve told me yourself—forty-seven first dates, five second dates, zero follow-through. You’re terrified of choosing wrong, so you choose nothing. And I can’t?—”
He stopped. Took a breath. Ran a hand through his hair in a gesture I’d seen a hundred times in the shop—frustration, exhaustion, the weight of something too heavy to carry.
“Do you know what it was like? This past week?” He wasn’t looking at me anymore. He was looking at the space over my shoulder, at nothing. “Having you here every day. Watching you relax. Watching you laugh at my terrible jokes about Victorian hair jewelry. Watching you curl up in that chair like you belonged there.”
“Marcus—”
“I started to hope.” The words came out rough, almost angry. “I told myself not to. I told myself you were just here for the quiet, that you’d leave eventually, that I shouldn’t let myself feel anything. But you kept coming back. You kept making me laugh. You kept looking at me like?—”
He stopped. Swallowed.
“Like maybe I wasn’t just a place to hide. Like maybe you actually saw me.”
“I DO see you?—”
“Then why did you leave?” His eyes met mine, and the pain in them made my chest ache. “After Greg showed up. After the moment broke. You just… left. You didn’t come back. You didn’t fight for it. Two days of nothing, and then four texts last night like that was supposed to fix it.”
“I had chaos—exes showing up, Todd appearing at my door?—”
“And I had silence.” His voice cracked. “Two days of wondering if any of it meant anything. Two days of convincing myself I’d been an idiot for hoping. And then your texts came and I thought—” He stopped. Shook his head. “It doesn’t matter what I thought.”
I opened my mouth. Closed it. Because he was right. I had left. I had gone home. I had sent texts instead of coming back,instead of banging on the door, instead of fighting for what I wanted.
Because fighting felt too scary. Because what if I fought and still lost?
“Because I’m scared,” I finally said. “Because the last time I chose someone, I chose wrong. Because I spent five years making myself smaller and smaller for a man who still told me I wasn’t enough. Because I don’t trust my own judgment anymore.”
“That’s not an answer. That’s an excuse.”
