“You think you’re bad at relationships,” I say. “But what I see is someone who loves deeply and stays longer than she should because she believes people can be better. That they can change. That’s not failure. That’s loyalty.” I squeeze her fingers. “Brandon wasn’t proof you’re bad at love. He was proof you gave your heart to the wrong person. There’s a difference.”
Her breath hitches.
“You think you make mistakes,” I continue. “You do. So do I. Everyone does.” A small smile tugs at my mouth. “But you learn. You course-correct. You don’t stop caring.”
She swallows, nodding faintly.
“You’re afraid we don’t know how to do this because we never saw it growing up.” I glance back at the road, then at her. “That part’s true. We didn’t have good examples of romantic love.” I pause. “But we had something else. We watched our moms choose each other as best friends every day. We learned how to show up. How to forgive. How to stay.”
Her hand tightens in mine.
“And the idea that this could ruin them, our moms?” I shake my head. “Gracie, nothing about us could tear them apart. If anything, they’ve been waiting for this longer than we have.” I huff a soft laugh.
Her mouth trembles.
“That last one,” I say gently. “The thought that maybe you aren’t good enough. That you aren’t worth the risk.”
I turn fully toward her. “That’s the lie that kept us apart.”
Her eyes meet mine, vulnerable and searching.
“It’s not all on you, though,” I add quietly. “This is my fault too.”
She stills.
“I stayed away because I was scared,” I admit. “Afraid that if I tried to be more than friends, if it didn’t work, I’d lose not just the woman I—” I stop myself. For a second, I almost choose the safer word.
I don’t.
“The woman I love,” I say quietly. “But I also worried I’d lose my best friend.”
The truth settles heavily between us.
“I’m not scared of that anymore,” I tell her. “I’m more scared of what happens if we don’t take the leap.”
I give her a small smile.
“And if we mess up?” she asks.
I squeeze her hand.
“We fix it. Together.”
Gracie
Present
I’ve been to Beck’s place lots of times before. Studied here. Watched movies here. Once, when he was sick, I came over and did all his laundry.
But tonight feels different. There’s an awkwardness between us as we walk up the stairs to his third-floor apartment. A silence that feels overly loud. Like we’ve forgotten how to talk to each other.
With each step, a million versions of Beck flash through my mind. Beck with the gap between his teeth. Beck wearing glasses for the first time. Beck shooting the basketball as the crowd cheered. Beck walking. Beck running. Beck driving.
I’ve seen him every way possible…except the way I’m about to see him now.
That thought makes my hands shake, my nerves tremble.
He opens the door and then steps back, letting me go in first.
