“When you step in like that, taking over my schedule? I know it’s because you’re worried, but I just—” He exhales slowly. “I don’t want to wake up one day and realize I don’t get a say anymore. I’m already losing too much of myself as it is. I don’t want… Ican’thave that. You understand?”
My throat tightens. God. I thought I was helping, easing the pressure and removing something from his plate. Instead, I made it worse. I made him feel like less of himself.
“I’m so sorry.” My voice comes out rough. “I never… fuck, I’m sorry, Vince. I should’ve asked.”
He nods, like that’s all he needed from me. “I know why you did it. I know you love me, Fletcher. I just need to know I’ll still have a say in this too, if…whenthings get worse. That’s all.”
Something shifts in my chest and I gasp sharply.I know you love me.
I can’t resist touching him now, my throat tight. “Of course you will. I never meant to hurt you.”
“I know. I’m sorry too.”
He takes my hand and threads our fingers together, then quickly lets go and loops my arm through his instead. His hands must be hurting too much.
“I don’t want to disappear, you know? All these things, the pieces of me… I can’t get them back. So I need to believe you still seeme. Not the illness.”
“You’re all I see, hon. I didn’t do this because you’re sick. I did this because I’ve seen how much you’re pushing yourself. I just wanted to give you—giveusa chance to breathe, that’s all.”
He doesn’t smile. But his shoulder leans into mine, just a little more, and pulls my hand closer, brushing a thumb over my wrist. “I know. Like I said, I reacted badly.”
I turn into him, resting my head against his shoulder. It doesn’t fix everything, and the fear doesn’t completely disappear. But at least now I know what triggered it.
Closing my eyes, I bite back the only thing I really want to say.
You’re right. I love you, Vince. More than you know.
As the wind kicks up, I shiver. “Want to go inside? It’s getting cold.”
“Yeah. I think so.”
21
VINCE
Ibarely stir all night on the surprisingly soft mattress, and when I wake the following morning, Fletcher is gone.
I lift my head to look for him, but the small room is empty. Sitting up, I stifle a yawn as I take in my surroundings. The cabin is a single plain room with wood floors and wood walls. It’s roughly the size of the in-law suite, with no kitchen, no bathroom—just a bed and a small bench for a table. The air is chilly and quiet, full of promise.
Through the window, I catch a glimpse of Fletcher’s red flannel jacket. What is he doing outside?
The cold floor nips my bare feet as I walk to the window. Fletcher turns, almost as if sensing me. His eyes soften, and he waves, pointing to the portable French press on the camp stove.
He’s making us coffee? I’d surrendered to the idea that we wouldn’t have any up here.
I lean against the window frame, peering out. It’s utterly breathtaking—nothing but trees and a vast blue sky.
A burst of cold air swirls around me when Fletcher comes back inside a few minutes later, carrying two steaming mugs.
He offers me one. “Morning. It’s not the best coffee, but at least we have some. I have creamer in the cooler.”
After sweetening my drink, I sit on the edge of the bed and let my arms rest on my thighs, grounding myself with the solid floor beneath my feet.
Fletcher sits beside me, shivering a little. “How’d you sleep?”
“Pretty good. You?”
He shrugs. “Good enough, I guess. Got a little cold, though.”
