I chew on my lower lip, unsure of exactlywhatto tell her. I don’t know if I’m ready to admit to the full scale of everything that went …wrong.“Um…”
She straightens. “Something happened.”
“I just—” I exhale. “It’s not that big of a deal.”
Her pizza lands on the plate. “Brittany.”
I wince. “We had a moment. It got … tense, and I may or may not have told him he only likes me because he’s desperate to be in love.” The words hurt coming out. “And then he said he wouldn’t bother me anymore.”
“And?” she prompts.
“And hehasn’t.”
Harlee doesn’t react. Instead, she studies me, calm and unreadable. It’s a classic lawyer move, and apparently, it’s one that she’s very good at. “Okay.”
“Okay?” I repeat. “That’s it?
“I think there’s more to the story,” she says lightly. “And I’m guessing you’re not thrilled with how it ended.”
I look down. “I just want things to go back to how they were—writing letters, being normal. He’s my brother’s best friend. There’s no way it could ever be more than that.”
“Uh-huh,sure.” She huffs. “That’s funny.”
“There’s nothing funny about it,” I counter.
“You like him,” she insists.
“I just got out of an engagement—”
“Months ago,” Harlee reminds me. “You’re allowed to feel things.”
“Okay, sure. But all I’ve ever done is build my life around whoever I’m with,” I admit. “Their schedule. Their needs. Their dreams. I don’t even realize I’m doing it until I don’t recognize myself anymore.”
My gaze drifts to the painting on the wall.
“I just got pieces of me back, Harlee, and I’m scared to let someone close enough to take them again.”
Harlee’s expression softens. “Okay … that part makes sense.” She shifts closer on the couch. “But being with someone doesn’t have to mean disappearing into them. The right person doesn’t replace your world, Brit, they fit into it.”
Her eyes follow mine to the painting. “They don’t take things from you. They make room for them.”
I swallow. “That sounds really nice.”
And painfully far away.
She waits.
“I just don’t know how to let someone in without rearranging everything,” I admit. “I don’t know how to not disappear.”
“And that’s okay.” She shifts closer on the couch.
“I hate that I hurt him.” I sigh.
“He put something out there,” she says gently, “and you weren’t ready. Neither of those things are wrong.” She gives a small shrug. “They just collided.”
My chest tightens.
“I do think you should write to him,” she continues gently. “Not to open a door you’re not ready to walk through. Just … to own your part. To apologize for hurting him.”
