The selfish part of me—the part that’s been happier these past weeks than I can remember being in years—wants to beg her to stay. To tell her we can figure it out, make it work, build something real. To promise her a future I have no right to offer.
But then I remember reality—the one I have to go back to now that I’m done playing house in Beaver County. About the uncertainty of my career. About the nightmares. The secret that’s eating me alive.
Sydney’s watching me, waiting for an answer, her eyes wide and earnest and so full of something that looks dangerously like hope. It takes everythingI have not to cross the space between us, pull her into my arms, tell her I love her, and beg her to stay.
Instead, I take a deep breath and say the words that feel like razor blades in my throat: “You can’t pass up an opportunity like this, Syd. You have to go.”
Something flickers across her face—surprise, disappointment, hurt—before she schools the emotion out of her expression. “That’s what you think?”
“I think you’ve worked your ass off for a chance like this.” I force the words out, each one cutting deeper than the last. “I think you’re too talented to stay stuck in Beaver County when you could be covering pro sports in LA.”
“There are other considerations,” she says carefully.
“Like what?” I push, even though I know exactly what she means, even though the hope in her eyes is killing me.
“Like us.” She gestures between us, her hand trembling slightly. “Whatever this is. Whatever we’ve become.”
I swallow hard, my throat suddenly desert-dry. “I’ve actually been cleared to play. So, I’m headed back to Boise.”
“Oh, that’s amazing,” she says, even though her tone doesn’t.
“We knew this could never be real, remember?” The words taste like ash, but I force them out, anyway. Because I love her enough to let her go. And she deserves better than the shitshow that’s my life.
“So that’s it?” The hurt in her voice is unmistakable now. “Everything that happened between us—the cabin, the nights together, all of it—that meant nothing?”
“No,” I say quickly, because I can’t bear for her to think that. “No, that was real. You and me, that was real.”
“Then why are you so quick to send me to LA?”
The question hangs between us, direct and unavoidable. I meet her gaze, see the confusion and pain there, and hate myself for causing it.
“Because I want what’s best for you,” I say finally. “And that’s not me, Syd. It’s not this town, or the local news station, or any of it. You’ve always wanted more, always deserved more.”
A tear slips down her cheek, and she brushes it away with an angry swipe of her hand. “Shouldn’t that be my decision? What’s best for me?”
“It is,” I insist, though the words feel hollow. “I’m just—I’m trying to support you.”
“So, you want me to move?” Her voice is barely above a whisper.
The moment stretches, time suspended as I look at this woman who’s somehow carved out a place in my heart I didn’t know existed. A woman who makes me laugh, who challenges me, who sees through my bullshit and calls me on it. A woman I could love—do love—if circumstances were different.
“I do,” I force myself to say, the words like broken glass in my mouth. “I want you to follow your dreams.”
Something breaks in her expression, a light going out. She nods once, sharply, like she’s coming to a decision.
“Okay then,” she says, her voice steadier than I expected. “I think I’ll go back home tonight. There’s no more reason for me to stay now that we’re not pretending for Maisie.”
Each word is precise and devastating. I want to protest, to tell her she shouldn’t leave. But what would be the point? I’ve already made my choice—to push her away, to set her free. To protect her.
“I think that’s probably for the best.” The words scrape my throat raw.
Sydney rises from the bed in one fluid motion. Her movements are efficient, practiced, like she’s packing up after a road game. The reporter mask is firmly in place now, professional and composed, though I can see the cracks around the edges.
“I’ll just grab my things from the bathroom.” She doesn’t meet my eyes.
“Take your time,” I say, though what I really want to say is “stay.”
She disappears into the en-suite, and I sit there, frozen on the edge of the bed, listening to the small sounds of her packing up her life. The zip of her toiletry bag. The click of makeup compacts. The rustle of clothes being folded.
