“I need to tell you about Stephen,” I say.
His jaw tightens, but he nods.
So I tell him. Not just the broad strokes—the specific ways Stephen made me feel small. The comments about my weight disguised as concern for my health. The sighs when I got excited about a new recipe. The way he’d look at thinner women and then look at me like I was a consolation prize he was graciously accepting.
“By the end,” I say, “I didn’t recognize myself. I’d made myself so small, trying to be what he wanted, that there was barely anything left. And when I finally got out, I promised myself I would never let anyone make me feel that way again.”
“I won’t?—”
“You already did,” I say. “Yesterday, when you packed my bags and pushed me out the door—you made a decision about my life without asking me. You decided I couldn’t handle your damage, that I was better off without you. Just like Stephen decided I was too much. You didn’t even give me a choice.”
Finn is pale now, his knuckles white around the mug he still hasn’t drunk from.
“You’re right,” he says quietly. “I did exactly what he did. I just dressed it up as protection instead of criticism.”
“Yes.”
“I’m sorry.” His voice breaks on the words. “I’m so sorry, Marcella. I didn’t see it that way, but you’re right. I took your choice away. I won’t do it again.”
“How do I know that?”
“You don’t.” He sets the mug down and meets my eyes. “You don’t know. And I can’t promise I won’t get scared again, because I will. I’m going to wake up some mornings convinced you’d be better off without me. But I can promise that I won’t act on it. I won’t push you away without talking to you first. I won’t make decisions about us without you.”
“That’s a big promise.”
“I know.” He leans forward, elbows on his knees. “Moira’s been trying to get me into real therapy for years. Not just the VA minimum—actual help. I’m going to do it. I’m going to find someone who specializes in PTSD and I’m going to do the work. Not because you’re asking me to, but because I want to be someone who deserves you.”
The words hang in the air between us. I search his face for any sign of the walls he built yesterday—the cold efficiency, the careful distance. I don’t find them. What I find instead is raw, terrified hope.
He means it. I can see that he means it.
But meaning it isn’t the same as doing it.
“I need time,” I say finally. “I need to see you actually do these things, not just promise them. I need to know that next week, next month, you’re still going to be here. Still choosing this.”
“I will be.”
“You don’t know that.”
“No,” he agrees. “But I know I want to be. And I know that the only thing worse than trying and failing is not trying at all.” He pauses. “I love you, Marcella. I should have said it days ago. I should have said it instead of packing your bags. But I’m saying it now, and I’ll keep saying it until you believe me.”
Love. The word lands like a stone in still water, ripples spreading outward.
I want to say it back. The words are right there, pressing against my teeth.
But I can’t. Not yet. Not until I know this is real.
“I’m not ready to say it back,” I tell him quietly. “I want to. But I need more time.”
Something flickers across his face—pain, maybe, or disappointment. But he nods.
“Okay. I’ll wait. However long it takes.”
“It might take a while.”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
We sit in silence for a moment, the weight of everything we’ve said settling around us. My tea has gone cold. So has his, untouched.
