“I’m being realistic.”
“You’re being a coward.”
The word lands like a slap. I absorb it without flinching.
“Maybe,” I admit. “But at least this way, the only person I’m hurting is me.”
“That’s not true.” Her voice cracks. “That’s not even close to true, Finn. You’re hurting me too. You’re hurting us. Everything we built over the last three days?—“
“Three days isn’t enough to build anything.”
“Bullshit.” She’s angry now, really angry, her cheeks flushed and her eyes bright with unshed tears. “Three days was enough to see something real. Three days was enough to make me want to try—really try—for the first time since my divorce. Three days was enough for you to make me believe I wasn’t too much for someone.”
Her voice breaks on the last words, and something in my chest splinters.
“And now you’re telling me none of it mattered?” she continues. “That I imagined the way you looked at me? The way you touched me? The way you said you’d rather be scared with me than safe alone?”
I flinch. She’s throwing my own words back at me, and every one of them lands like a blade.
“I meant that,” I say, and my voice comes out wrecked. “I meant every word. That’s the problem, Marcella. I meant it too much. I?—“
I stop myself before the rest spills out. Before I tell her that somewhere in the last three days, I fell so hard I can’t see straight. That I love her—God help me, I love her—and that’s exactly why I have to let her go. Because loving someone means watching them leave, or worse, watching them stay and slowly realize they made a mistake.
“You what?” she demands. “Finish the sentence, Finn.”
But I can’t. If I say it out loud, I’ll never be able to push her away. And pushing her away is the only thing I know how to do.
“You should go.” My voice sounds foreign to my own ears. Hollow. “I’ll get your things.”
I turn toward the stairs before she can respond. Before I can see her face crumble. Before I lose my nerve and beg her to stay, even though staying would only delay the inevitable.
Before I tell her I love her and ruin us both.
Packing takes fifteen minutes.
She didn’t bring much—just an overnight bag and the groceries she’d intended for her date with Boyd. I carry everything to the door while she watches in silence, her arms wrapped around herself like she’s trying to hold herself together.
The walk to her car feels endless.
The snow is deep but packed down enough to navigate. Weak afternoon sunlight filters through the clouds, casting everything in shades of gray and white. Beautiful, in the stark way winter mountains can be. Unforgiving.
Her rental SUV starts on the third try. The battery held after all. One less excuse to keep her here.
I load her bags into the back while she stands by the driver’s door, watching me with an expression I can’t read. When I finish, I close the hatch and turn to face her.
This is it. The goodbye I’ve been dreading since I first smelled her cooking drifting through my trees.
“Drive carefully,” I say. “The roads are clear, but there might be ice in the shadows. Take the switchbacks slow.”
“Finn.” Her voice is barely a whisper. “Please don’t do this.”
“It’s already done.”
“It doesn’t have to be.” She steps closer, and I force myself not to retreat. “I meant what I said. About being willing to try. About figuring it out together. You said you were willing too—was that a lie?”
I want to tell her no. Want to tell her I meant every word, that the afternoon we spent imagining our future together was the happiest I’ve been in four years.
But wanting something doesn’t make it possible. Wanting something doesn’t make me capable of being what she needs.
