That nothing could be salvaged through his rightful hatred.
It’s statistically improbable to retract a negative opinion once it’s set.Anger and dislike form a concrete layer around the psyche, blocking change, and it takes a sledgehammer to break through it.It’s a harsh truth that I know better than he does, better than most, probably.I never felt equipped with a sledgehammer to bust through the bad impressions, rumors, labels, or ill will toward me.I lacked the strength to wield it, even if I did.They were set in stone, unbreakable.I shouldn’t expect this conversation with Henry to be any different.
But he’s here.He showed.That alone suggests that hope exists, and it’s far better than my prediction—me waiting on this boat all night until the captain gruffly asked me to leave with a, “He ain’t comin’, darlin’.”Or some other southern colloquialism.Then, returning to my miserable life, consoled only by the fact that this time, he got to reject me.
He glares now, steaming over my vague and albeit simplistic explanation for what’s desperately more complicated.Though it’s the truth—I didn’t want to trap him.
He’s right to be angry—I know that—but how can I not feel validated by my decision to leave when his life, like Ivy’s and Dad’s, has only improved in my absence?He’s a teacher, a business owner, and a father.He’s shown kindness to me, despite his anger, by showing up and easing me into talking.When he held me, it felt like home—at least, how I think home should feel.He’s everything I knew he would be and more.
The sunlight reflects off his glasses—no longer wire frames but thick, tortoiseshell ones that give him a more serious, grown-up look.His narrowed brown eyes appear lighter in the sun, golden like bourbon over ice.He’s taller, broader, thinner in the face, and more confident in his style, but as handsome as always.Though I believe my brain would register him as attractive, no matter his appearance.His lopsided smile remains the same, but it’s softer somehow, as if behind it he carries a deeper understanding and empathy.
I only hope that holds true.
I find myself sitting on this uncomfortable stool, in this ridiculous dress, on this absurd boat, falling in love with this man all over again at themere ideaof who he’s become.The reality of him is likely to be my unmaking.He’s here.With me.Everything’s okay.
Only it isn’t.Not yet.I must tell him the truth.
“I… I loved you, Henry.”My voice shudders with emotion—it’s overwhelming—but I remind myself thatthis is it.My last chance to talk to him, to tell him everything, and I can’t hold back.“Still do… always will …”
“Then, why?”he urges gently.“Talk to me.”
“Um, senior year, many factors were converging for me at once—the end of a long and heinous nightmare, which I was still in, merged into this beautiful dream of us and a real future together.Despite my diatribes about romantic love being a farce, I’d wanted it to be true for us.”
“Itwastrue for us,” he says quietly.
I grab the napkin under my drink and dab my nose and eyes.I take a deep breath, wanting so badly to dive into the water and be done with this conversation.It’s too much.
But I can’t do that to him.Not again.
“The love was there… yes.But do you know what it’s like to love someone and be a constant disappointment to them?I didn’t mean to, but I created problems for everyone who cared for me.Dad, Ivy, and especially you.All the times I got you in trouble with Maggie or at school—it may’ve seemed adventurous and fun at first, but even your view of me shifted in high school.”
“I wanted to bewithyou,” he cuts in with emphasis.
“You were embarrassed by me.If we’d stuck with the plan, it would’ve been… hard on you.Hard on us both.”
His brow pinches with sympathy or irritation—I’m not sure which.“You don’t know that.College would’ve been a new start for us.We had a plan.”
I clear my throat and fixate on his light brown eyes.“Yes, you and me at UNC-Chapel Hill.I wanted to be with you.But it would’ve been more of the same, only worse, because instead of going home to my father, who understood me and gave me measured freedom, and Ivy, who at least tolerated me, I’d be sharing a dorm room with someone, probably like Ivy, except less forgiving and understanding.I’d be stuck in lecture halls, forced to take classes I didn’t care about, to sit still, to keep quiet.I tried convincing myself that I could get through it with my head down and mouth shut—that had been my system, but it’d failed.Repeating the same faulty experiment seemed ludicrous and, honestly, I didn’t have the capacity for it… even for you.”
I sniffled, wiping my damp eyes.“I would’ve tried, though.I fully intended to try for you.But I remembered the countless times I embarrassed you in school, years of loneliness, ridicule, and separation, when you were with your friends and denied being mine.I was fully aware that I lived in two very separate existences then—a free and beautiful one, where I had you, and the other, where I didn’t, andoneof those was ending.I transferred that hurt and disappointment to us as adults, and I… I… couldn’t do it.”
I take a breath as he stares at me, transfixed and probably still angry.
“Prom night, I put on the dress, this dress,” I say, fumbling with the tulle of the poofy skirt, “and looked in the mirror, hoping I could bethatgirl for you,willingmyself to bethatgirl.I wanted to slip into normalcy, just like I did this dress, and become someone to make youproud.But no matter what I put on, it wouldn’t make me any less of a burden for all the ways I continued to hurt you.Embarrassed you.Got you in trouble.Put you in the terrible position of having to choose between them and me?—”
“I should’ve chosen you.That was my fault,” he says, sounding regretful.
“No, it wasn’t.You were right to distance yourself from me.That’s what I wanted you to do.Just because I made myself an outcast didn’t mean you needed to be.And… perhaps college would’ve been different.But then you almostdiedbecause of me.How could I trust in us when I couldn’t trust myself with you?When I saw you coming down our path, I thought about what my therapist told me to ask when my impulses triggered:Is this helpful, healthy, and safe?And the answer was no—I was none of those things to you.I just kept hurting you, Henry.So, everything ultimately converged on one conclusion.Loving you meant leaving you.So, I begged Dad to turn you away, to lie, to sayanythingto make you leave.It’s the most painful thing I’ve ever done.Even now, it hurts, and I’m ashamed that I couldn’t talk to you.But two days later, I was on a plane, and for the first time in my life, I could breathe.I could finallybreathe.”
His eyes close tightly, like he’s disappointed, but then his arm wraps around my shoulders, and he pulls me to him across the barstools.My overflowing tension depletes in his arms, like he releases the pressure valve.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers over and over.“I’m so sorry.”
I don’t know what to say—I never expected him to apologize to me.
“Why couldn’t you talk to me then?”he asks softly.“You had all these… big feelings, and you didn’t think I deserved to know?”
“Of course, you did.But I knew what you’d say.That everything was okay, or it would be—you’d make sure—and I’d believe you, despite the evidence against it, and I… I wouldn’t be able to resist you, Henry.”I shake my head, peeling away from his warm shoulder.“You deserved better, but I struggled to communicate emotions that I didn’t understand.Still do.The only reason I’m able to now is because I’ve had a decade of therapy… and it’s my last chance.”
