“I don’t know.”
“Yeah, you do. Now say it.”
I push out a long breath. “I’m a tough bitch.”
“Damn straight you are. Now come inside.” Shedrapes her arm around my shoulders and ushers me into the familiar living room. “I think this calls for some day drinking. In the immortal words of the great Jimmy Buffett, ‘It’s five o’clock somewhere.’”
I let out a wet, broken sob.
God, I’ve missed her.
An hour later, after a much-needed shower, I’m sitting at Emily’s kitchen island with a half-empty glass of rosé. Sunlight filters through the blinds, a welcome sight for January. Chicago is normally gray and depressing this time of year.
Not today.
I wonder if it’s the universe telling me this is where I’m supposed to be.
“So tell me,” Emily begins. “What happened?”
I shake my head, unsure where to start with this story. So much has happened since I last spoke to her. Growing closer to Hayden. My breakthroughs with Presley. Our yes day. Our yes night. But that’s not why I’m here.
“He told me he loves me.”
She sucks in a breath, feigning aghast. “The nerve.”
“Em, I’m being serious.”
“So am I.” She winks before she tempers her playful expression. “I assume his declaration wasn’t well-received.”
“What choice did I have?”
“Oh, I don’t know. You could have told him you lovehim, too. Because I know you do. You wouldn’t be the hot mess you are right now if you didn’t.”
I fidget with the stem of the wine glass, averting my gaze. “You know why I couldn’t do that.”
“Actually, I don’t.”
“Because of this.” I gesture to my scar. “He’s already lost his wife. His kids lost their mom. I will not be the next woman they bury.”
“I could die tomorrow.”
“That’s not the same.” I scoff weakly.
“Isn’t it?”
“Not even close,” I respond, although my voice lacks conviction.
She studies me for a long moment, the silence unnerving me. “You know, for someone who’s spent the last year preaching about living in the present, you’re still letting the future dictate a lot of your decisions. Including this one.”
“I’m just being realistic.”
“No. You’re being stubborn. There’s a big difference.”
“He’s already lost so much,” I argue once more.
I’ve repeated these words so many times over the past few days they sound like a broken record. But it’s the only thing that’s made the ache in my heart even remotely bearable.
“I can’t put him through that again.”
