Thank you for the offer. I’m flattered, but I’ve fallen in love with a honky-tonk bar and a mountain town and a man with blue eyes who carves animals out of wood.
Thank you for the offer. I’m flattered, but I’m finally figuring out who I am when I’m not performing for anyone, and I’m afraid to leave. I’m afraid that if I leave, I’ll lose her again.
Thank you for the offer. I’m flattered, but…
But what?
I don’t know. That’s the problem. I don’t know.
My phone buzzes.
Wyatt: You awake?
Me: Yeah. I can’t sleep.
Wyatt: Me neither. Want company?
I hesitate for a moment with my fingers hovering over the screen. I should say no. Keep my distance until I figure this thing out. I should stop digging myself deeper into this hole, I might have to climb out of.
Me: Yes.
Twenty minutes later, there’s a soft knock on my door. Wyatt is standing there in sweatpants and a T-shirt, his hair rumpled like he’s been running his hands through it all night. He looks worried. He looks tired.
“Hey,” he says.
“Hey.”
We stand there for a moment, neither of us moving, then he reaches out and pulls me into a hug. It’s not romantic. It’s not leading anywhere. It’s just comfort, his arms around me, his chin resting on top of my head, his heart beating steady against my ear.
“Listen, I don’t know what’s going on with you,” he says quietly. “And you don’t have to tell me if you’re not ready, but I need you to know that I’m here. Whatever it is, I’m here.”
My eyes sting with tears, but I refuse to let them fall.
“I know,” I whisper. “I know you are.”
We stand there in the doorway, holding each other, and I think about that email sitting on my laptop, about the choice I have to make, about the life I could have in Switzerland and the life I’m building here. And I realize, with a clarity that suddenly terrifies me, that I’m going to have to choose not between two jobs, but between two versions of myself.
The Eleanor that I was raised to be, the polished, accomplished, impressive one, or the Eleanor I’m becoming, the messy, uncertain, and maybe real one.
We end up on the sofa, just sitting, not talking. Wyatt’s arm is around me, and my head is on his shoulder. The mountains are dark shapes against an even darker sky.
“I’m scared,” I say finally.
“Of what?”
“Of making the wrong choice, of messing everything up, of…” I stop and shake my head.
“Of what, Eleanor?”
I should tell him, right now. Just say the words. Why is this so hard?
I got a job offer in Switzerland.
I have to decide in a few days.
But the words will not come, because saying them means watching his face change.
“Of not being good enough,” I lie. “For any of this.”
