My discomfort isn’t important enough to inconvenience anyone else, or that’s how I act. But that’s not true.
And I don’t want to love Emmett like that. Proving I can stay doesn’t mean he’ll let me.
Yesterday, I thought he would. But things were perfect then. In the light of reality, I’m not sure he’s ready for that.
Even if he meant every word—if he still doesn't know how to let himself have it or can’t overcome the fear, then what can we really have?
You can’t.
His words from just a little while ago were laced with the fear that holds him back.
My fingers trace along the edge of the bench.
I don’t need perfection, and I’ve never asked for easy.
I just want him.
But Connie’s right.
I can show up. I can tell him the truth. I can choose him every single day. I just can’t make him believe me.
“This is the best spot for thinking. Usually I have it all to myself, but it looks like you need it.”
The unexpected voice startles me.
I quickly wipe beneath my eyes before turning and smiling.
A man stands at the edge of the path, maybe about fifty. He’s short but broad with salt and pepper hair and a tan that tells me he probably spends a fair amount of time outdoors. He leans over the back of the wheelchair he’s pushing.
“Sorry.” He smiles kindly. “Didn’t mean to interrupt.”
“It’s fine. I was getting dangerously close to overthinking.”
The elderly man in the wheelchair has his face tipped toward the sun, a blanket tucked carefully around his legs.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” the man asks, turning the wheelchair to face the water and locking the wheels. When he’s done, he stands beside it, facing the same direction.
I look back at the pond.
“It is.”
“Mind if I join you?” He points to the iron bench.
“No, not at all.” I move to the end, making more room.
“Thanks.” He lowers with a groan. “These old knees aren’t what they used to be.”
A smile tugs at my lips. “You don't look old enough to complain about your knees.”
“Careful. Flattery will get you everywhere.”
A quiet laugh spills from my lips.
Laughing with a stranger feels cathartic somehow. Like a release valve opening after the last twenty-four hours.
He leans back against the bench, looking over the water.
For a few minutes, neither of us says anything—i’s surprisingly comfortable. Maybe because he doesn’t ask me what’s wrong.
