Her voice drops. “You didn’t ruin anything.”
“I didn’t want to be the small-town boyfriend who made you choose.”
“I didn’t want to choose,” she snaps.
“Life makes you.”
We move again, but slower now.
She presses closer, her body aligning with mine as if the argument itself is fuel.
“You should’ve come,” she whispers.
“And what?” I counter. “Watched you shine somewhere I didn’t belong?”
“You belonged with me.”
The statement rattles something deep inside me. My grip tightens instinctively. Her breath catches.
“You make it sound simple,” I say.
“It was.”
“It wasn’t.”
We pivot again. Her hair brushes my cheek.
“I waited,” she admits quietly.
“For what?”
“For you to show up.”
The confession lands like a punch. My chest tightens.
“I thought you wanted space.”
“I wanted to know you’d fight.”
I stop again. The music fades to a soft instrumental bridge.
“I would’ve fought anyone,” I tell her. “Just not you.”
Her eyes glisten, but she doesn’t look away. “You don’t get to decide what I needed.”
“I was eighteen, Sadie.”
“So was I.”
Silence stretches. The air thickens. Mrs. Dottie whispers something about “electric tension” from the sidelines.
I slide my hand up her back, fingers splaying between her shoulder blades and she shivers.
“You think this is easier for me now?” I murmur.
“You’re the one acting like it’s nothing.”
“It’s never been nothing.”
