Something in my chest cracked open.
“You’d turn it down?” I whispered.
“Yes.”
“Even if it means less control?”
“Yes.”
“Even if it means someone else screws it up?”
“Yes.”
“Why?” My voice broke. “Why would you do that?”
“Because I have finally figured out what matters,” he said, each word like a weight, solid and sure. “And it’s not a seat at their table. It’s you.”
My throat closed.
“Julia,” he said softly. “I’m coming home. I just need a few days to make sure walking away sticks.”
“How many days?” I asked, hating how small I sounded.
He exhaled. “Three. Maybe four.”
Three.
I could survive three.
“Okay,” I whispered.
“Say it like you mean it.”
“Okay,” I said again, a little stronger.
“I need you to believe me,” he said. “Because if I start thinking you don’t, I’ll tear this building down and walk out in handcuffs.”
The image was so perfectly him that a watery laugh bubbled out. “I believe you.”
“Good,” he said. “Now go to bed. You sound like you’re sitting on the floor.”
I glanced at the tile. “I hate how much you know.”
“You love it,” he said.
I didn’t argue.
We stayed on the phone a few minutes longer, not sayingmuch. Just breathing together, letting the line between us hum with something almost tangible.
When we finally hung up, the house still felt too quiet.
But the space inside my chest didn’t feel quite so hollow.
He was coming back.
For the first time in a long time, I believed it.
39
