The look on Tristan’s face.
The fact that he stood there hollowed out too.
The fact that he didn’t run to Stella after.
The fact that maybe?—
No.
I squeeze my eyes shut.
I know what hope costs now.
And yet.
My mother drives the final nail.
“Do not let him walk away from you just because he got scared of making the wrong choice,” she says. “Give him space if you have to. Fine. But don’t hand another woman the ending because you were too proud to stay in the game.”
Game.
God.
Everything in my life is a game to somebody.
Soccer.
Football.
Basketball.
Love.
Maybe she’s right.
Maybe that’s the worst part.
I press the heel of my hand to my eyes.
“What am I supposed to do?”
My voice is wrecked.
Not at all the polished Texas steel I’d prefer to be wearing.
My mother answers immediately.
“You don’t chase. You don’t beg. You don’t humiliate yourself.”
That helps.
A little.
“You let him feel your absence.”
A beat.
“You let him miss what you were to him.”
