Me: Thank you for checking in, Blue. I'm…still thinking.
I send the message. Then I sink onto a stool, press my elbows into my knees, and rest my head in my hands as stark realities I've been resisting claw their way to the surface.
I care too much for her, more than I'm supposed to or is allowed for anyone in my profession. But she trusts me and chose me. Despite every wrong turn we took, every line smudged beyond recognition, and all the parts of me that know better, I'm choosing her too. Only now, I don't know if it's for her safety or my downfall. I can't tell the difference anymore.
My phone buzzes from the counter. The sound ricochets through the kitchen like a command, and I stand before I can second-guess it.
No new message. It's just a calendar alert. But the empty screen solidifies the panic growing in my chest.
If I don't give her an answer soon, she'll think the silence means goodbye. She'll spiral and hurt herself trying to prove a point, believing I abandoned her like Brax.
He never got as far with her as I did.
Jesus. What am I saying?
I came with her over the phone. He never did.
It was inappropriate, asshole.
Smug satisfaction overpowers me, taking me by surprise. I open the LinkedIn private message box, look at the photo Blue sent me of Brax and his wife, and compare him to me.
I'm five years older than him, but I think I've aged well. He's got more muscle, but there's a roughness about him, and I assume he's a fighter. My physique is leaner, and I stand no chance in a back alley with a man like Brax.
She still chose me.
"Jesus Christ, what am I saying?" I mutter, knowing that this is all insane. Still, I unlock my phone with a shaking thumb.
My therapist brain screams at me to think it through, pause, consult, reflect, and disengage. Yet my heart, my body, and my guilt ignore the rationale for what I should do. I open our message thread.
Her last words glow softly on the screen:
I'm safe today. Thank you for our honest conversation yesterday.
My pulse screams between my ears. I take deep breaths, then type the message that seals my guilt, my desire, my failure, and my choice.
Me: Can you come in on Wednesday at 6? We should continue working through yesterday.
My thumb hovers for one last second of sanity.
Don't do this.
You're crossing a line you can't uncross.
You're giving her hope you're not supposed to give.
You're keeping her for the wrong reasons.
I ignore it all and hit send. The moment the message leaves, a surge of panic grips my ribs. I drop my phone onto the counter and stumble back like I've been physically hit.
I drag a shaking hand through my hair. "What the hell am I doing?"
I'm choosing her.
And I don't know how to stop.
Regret and relief crash into me as I stare at the message. I shouldn't have sent it. I know I shouldn't have. But the alternative, saying goodbye, felt like suffocation.
I pace my kitchen when the phone vibrates. I grab my phone. Her name flashes across the screen.
