Charles had pulled away after our scare. Would Griffin do the same?
Or worse—was I the one about to pull away this time?
I needed to respond. Needed to be the calm one, the voice of reason, the person who could talk Griffin down from the ledge.
But my hands were shaking again, and all I could think was:Why did I say yes to this?
I set my phone down on the bathroom counter and gripped the edge of the sink, staring at my reflection in the mirror. My face looked pale, drawn. Scared.
I’d known better. I’d done this before and promised myself after Nashville that I wouldn’t do it again. I wouldn’t let attraction override wisdom. I wouldn’t risk everything I’d rebuilt for someone who might not choose me when it mattered.
And then Griffin had looked at me with those ice-blue eyes and said he wanted to try, and I’d said yes like I hadn’t learned anything from Charles at all.
What was wrong with me?
I recognized this pattern. I was an optimist, always looking for the next adventure, convinced thatthis timewould be different. But there was a shadow side to that optimism—a tendency to ignore red flags, to jump into situations because they felt exciting without fully calculating the cost.
I’d done exactly that with Griffin. Let myself get swept up in the attraction, the connection, the way he made me feel seen and valued in ways I hadn’t felt since beforeNashville fell apart. I’d ignored every warning sign—the power dynamic, the workplace violation, the fact that he was closeted and terrified and years away from being able to acknowledge me publicly.
I’d known all of that. And I’d said yes anyway.
Was this self-sabotage? Some unconscious part of me that wanted to prove I couldn’t have good things, that every relationship was doomed to repeat the same pattern?
Or was I just an idiot who kept choosing men who couldn’t choose me back?
The panic in Griffin’s last message was palpable. He was spiraling, and I needed to help him. That’s what you did when you cared about someone—you showed up, even when you were terrified yourself.
But all I could think about was Charles doing the same thing and the slow collapse.
My fingers hovered over my phone keyboard, and I started typing before I could stop myself.
Wesley
This is too risky. I can’t do this.
I stared at the message. Read it three times. My thumb moved toward the send button.
Then I deleted it.
Tried again:
Wesley
I’m sorry, but I need to protect my career. Tonight proved this can’t work.
Deleted.
Wesley
We should end this before someone gets hurt. Or fired. Or both.
Deleted.
Wesley
I can’t keep hiding. I did this in Nashville and it destroyed me. I won’t do it again.
Deleted.
