Page 89 of Wildflowers and Wide Receivers

“See what coming?”

“This. You. Vivi. Us. All these weeks. I’ve been so blinded by the opportunity to finally get to know you and actually spend time with you, that it never occurred to me that this wasn’t going to become something more. You live here. It’s been over two years. Why would I ever think you were trying to live somewhere else? I had convinced myself that fate had brought us back together, but how fucking foolish is that?”

This time, he does turn to look at me. There’s devastation and heartbreak etched into the muscles on his face.

“I don’t think it’s foolish. I had those thoughts, too,” I tell him. I have so much to say, so much I want to express to him. “Jonah,” I start, but he cuts me off.

“No. Don’t. I’m not mad. I understand, I do. You have goals and dreams, just like I do. You’re so smart, and I’m so proud of you, but Vivi,” he chokes out while more tears start to leak from his eyes. “She’s already suffered enough loss in her lifetime, and now I’ve let her get close to you, and you’re going to be someone else who leaves her.”

When it comes to children, men are just a different breed. Would Jonah have ever cried in front of me before? I don’t know. But most guys that I’ve met over the years would not. Add in their love of a child and every wall comes down. It’s sexy, it’s pheromone overload, but when they’re worried or hurt, it’s devastating.

“No matter what happens between us, I will never leave her,” I state firmly, my own tears falling.

He lays his head back against the couch and closes his eyes again. He doesn’t want me to see him, and that’s when it hits me. He’s hurting because it’s not just about me leaving Vivi; he thinks I’m leaving him, too. He opened himself up to me, allowed me into a place I’m not sure anyone else has been, and now this. His father left, his mother died, his brother died, and now me.

How did I not see this sooner?

This makes my process for how I’ve handled this and how I’ve tried to sort through it even worse.

I feel so atrocious to have made him feel this way, it hurts to breathe.

More tears fall from both of us as I watch this beautiful man and sit with him while he tries to shut out the world. A world that I made more damaging, even after all the disappointment and loss he’s already experienced.

“I try so hard to be what she needs, and I selfishly and quickly allowed you to fill a role in her life that isn’t yours to fill. I should have kept our relationship separate, at least until we had some kind of discussion about where we were headed.”

My heart plummets because we did have a little bit of this discussion that night, and I take full responsibility because I kind of led him on. He was very upfront when he said, “This is our life, and I need you to decide sooner rather than later if you want to be a part of it.” For weeks, I’ve let him believe I did, and the worst feeling slithers into my chest.

Guilt.

Shame.

And suddenly unworthy.

“She was never meant to be mine.” He looks back at me, his eyes watery. “But now she is, and although I will mess things up as we go, she’s my number one responsibility, I hope you understand that.”

“I do,” I say, hoping to convince him that I really do.

He frowns as he looks at me. His expression is so sad and so resigned, I can’t help but continue to cry as I stare at him.

He sniffs and blinks once. The pain in his eyes moves behind a wall as he layers the bricks to block me out, and very calmly but firmly, he says, “I need you not to be here when she wakes up.”

And the hammer falls, smashing my heart to pieces.

I’ve never been here when she wakes in the morning. We’ve always kept our romantic life separate, but right now, at this moment, he’s politely asking me to leave.

I suddenly feel awkward, like I’m imposing, and it feels terrible.

“Of course. Let me just run upstairs and get dressed.” I scramble off the couch and make my way toward the stairs as my heartbeat pounds against my chest wall.

Why did I let this happen?

Why did I allow us all to get so close?

From the moment I accepted the interview, I should have told him, so he could make up his own mind or let them go.

Tears keep falling as I pull off his shirt and slip on my clothes. It takes me no time at all, and I’m back down the stairs, my shoes are on, and I’m headed for the door. He follows, but as I go to pull it open, he places his hand on the top, keeping it shut. I glance over my shoulder at him and find him a little bit open, which has me turning to face him.

His free hand reaches up and tucks a few strands of hair behind my ear before he sweeps his thumb over my cheekbone to wipe away my tears and cradles the back of my head.