Birdie watches me, her arms folding tighter against her chest, holding herself purposefully away from me. “Okay.”
Okay? Okay. What does “okay” mean? “So, do you forgive me?”
“Yes, I forgive your outburst. I understand the pressure you’re under.”
“Good, great. I am, and I will never take it out on you ever again.” I step closer, but if possible, she shrinks by the door. “Birdie?”
Her eyes shutter closed, and she exhales a shaky breath. “I forgive you, but…”
But… oh no.
“I can’t be with you again.”
Someone must have, without my knowledge or permission, jammed a sword right through my heart. I grapple with something to say, something that will magically and forever change her mind, and come up… blank.
I don’t come up blank. I’m the one who has the romantic ideas, I’m the one who gets the grand gestures planned and organized, I’m the one who fixes relationships.
But now, faced with my own demise… I’ve got nothing.
“Ever?” my brilliant mind asks, staring at her with horror slicing through my every bone.
“Not ever,” she whispers, shaking her head, tears filling her eyes. “I just can’t right now. I can’t slip back to how it was before. I love you, Derek. Rora loves you. But you really hurt me.”
I feel like my knees are going to give out beneath me, making me crumble to them in front of her. My mouth opens, and my brain pushes for words to come, like “please” and “I’m sorry” and “don’t leave me.”
I don’t say any of that, because deep down I know it won’t solve a thing.
For once, I need to keep my mouth shut.
For once, I need to do what’s best for her, push my selfish need to fix this problem aside, and allow her to move at her own pace.
“Okay,” I say, finally finding a voice I can use. “But I can’t give up, Birdie. I know I broke something here, but I’m going to fix it.”
She eyes me, hope or fear or something warring in her eyes, and doesn’t say a word back.
I take a step back, then another. But I stop myself and ask, “How’s Rora?”
Birdie softens at my question and nods. “She’s doing good, she asks about you a lot.”
That makes my heart ache, and I nod. “I miss her.”
“She misses you,” she replies and opens her mouth to say more but snaps it closed.
“Does she know…?” I let the question hang.
“No,” Birdie replies, giving me more hope with that answer than I think she realizes. “I’ve just been saying you’re working a lot.”
I am working a lot, more than I have in three years, but I don’t say that. It feels weird to talk about it now, even though I’m implementing her plan.
I think the hurt that I’ve caused overshadows the entirety of my shop actually looking like it might be successful.
I’m here for her and her alone.
“Thank you,” I say and mean it. “You didn’t have to.”
“I wanted to. I don’t need her to be hurting too.”
Too.
