Her shoulders tremble in uneven bursts, hair curtaining her face. She doesn’t look at me when I slow and crouch in front of her. Her hands tremble in her lap, fingers twitching against the fabric of her dress like she’s holding back a scream. Then her arms move to wrap tight around her middle, and she begins rocking—barely, but enough to betray the storm inside.
“Shhh...Maisie...sweetheart....it’s okay. I’ve got you.” I try to rub her shoulder, but she brushes my hand away.
When she finally lifts her head, it guts me. Her face is blotchy, eyes red and swollen, tears streaking down her cheeks. She’s a mess—in the middle of an absolute, full-throttle ugly cry. The kind that would terrify small children and even break waterproof mascara.
And somehow, she’s still the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
“Oh, Maze.” I reach out to wipe her cheeks, but she flinches.
Her glassy eyes search my face, flitting back and forth between my eyes like she’s trying to read a language she once knew by heart but no longer understands. She hesitates, lips parting and closing again, as if weighing whether her questions are worth the risk.
“Last night—” She chokes on the words, then hiccups, wiping her nose with the back of her hand. “You said... that you loved me. Said... I was the one.”
She turns away. I sense her struggling to look back at me as if seeing into my soul might confirm her reasons for doubting me. My heart is breaking that she could even think this for one second.
“You said you wanted to be my husband.” A strangled sob escapes.
“And then this morning—” Her breath stutters. “There’s. A. Woman.” She swallows. “On your porch.”
I shift and move into a kneeling position in front of her but not daring to touch or console her.
“And you. Your hair. Coffee. Your feet.” She’s rocking again. “Like you just got out of bed.”
I groan, jolted by the way her pitch sharpens, the pain in her voice rising from a whisper to a squeaky screech, like a violin string played too hard.
“She’s getting ready to leave.” Maisie’s rocking again.
“Like she stayed the night,” she finally snaps, her voice louder now, trembling with disbelief. “What was I supposed to think?”
The words stab me one after the other. I reach for my pockets, desperate to help her, to give her a tissue, something, anything. I turn them inside out, coming up empty except for my phone.
Maisie lets out a sound between a sob and a laugh. “You’re still in your pajamas.”
Something eases in my chest—not much, but enough to notice. Her voice isn’t edged this time. Not angry. Not broken. Just Maisie, seeing me the way she used to, if only for a second.
Relief pricks me that she’s still talking to me. I exhale deeply and give her a shaky grin. “Didn’t know I’d need my running gear to chase down the only woman I love this morning.” I brush gravel off the sole of my foot and wince.
“Your poor feet.” The words stretch out dramatically, slowly as if being pulled along by accordion folds opening for the first time. I’m not getting any sympathy from her right now.
The corner of her mouth twitches, but her tears don’t stop.
I sober, leaning closer. “Maisie, I need you to hear me. IthoughtI loved her once. Her betrayal was the worst thing I’ve ever felt…until right now.”
It’s as if I’ve been dropped into wet cement—my lungs resisting every drag of air, limbs heavy, the pressure of watching her unravel pushing in from all sides.
“That was nothing compared to this.” I plead. “Seeing you like this.”
“How can I believe that?” She blurts. “You kissed her.”
I recoil with a grimace, shaking my head fast enough to make my hair fall across my eyes. “She tried to kiss me. I jerked away so all she got was the corner of my mouth. A pathetic little peck. Basically, an air kiss. Like in Europe.” I stumble through the words, too fast, too desperate, trying to fix everything with one breath. Because maybe if I talk fast enough, I can outrun the damage I’ve done.
Maisie’s body shudders as her sobs soften. She snorts, scrunching her puffy face with a laugh that’s half choked, half defiant. “I’m a pathetically gross crier,” she mutters.
A tiny piece of my heart breaks off and drops behind my ribs. Maisie, wrecked and raw, still trying to be funny. And it shatters me even more than the continued crying.
Yet somehow, the humor works. Not because she’s not a mess—she is—but because even in this condition, she’s mine. Or at least, I pray she still wants to be.
For the first time since I caught up to her, she almost smiles.
