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Some part of me understood that if I made the relationship sound smaller than it was, I might be able to walk away from it. If I made the decision hard enough and final enough, there would be nothing left for either of us to negotiate.

That’s how I solve problems. I identify the risk, make the decision and absorb the cost.

Tonight, the cost is Blaire.

I have spent my entire life being taught that responsibility means sacrifice, that leadership means making the difficult choice before anyone else has to make it for you. Somewhere along the way, I learned to believe that taking control is the same thing as protecting the people I care about.

Now I have used that belief to walk away from the woman I love. The realization does not stop me from leaving. It only makes every step harder.

Chapter Eighteen

Blaire

*THREE WEEKS LATER*

Rain streaks across the windows of my apartment in slow, uneven lines, turning the buildings across the street into a blur of gray glass and brick. I have been staring at the same view for almost twenty minutes without really seeing it.

It reminds me of London—not Ross. I refuse to let it become Ross.

Just London, with its unpredictable rain and damp sidewalks and the way the sky could change three times before noon for no reason whatsoever. I pull the blanket higher over my legs and sink farther into the corner of the sofa.

I have been back in New York for three weeks, and somehow my apartment still feels temporary, as though I came home between trips and forgot to leave again. My suitcase is finally unpacked, but half the clothes inside my closet are still arranged differently from before because I have not had the energy to care where anything goes.

The first two weeks were mostly exhaustion. Jet lag, heartbreak, disrupted sleep and the crash that comes after spending more than three months moving at a pace that never really allowed me to stop. At least that is what I have been telling myself.

This past week has been different. I have barely wanted food, and when I do manage to eat, my stomach usually regrets it. I am tired enough to sleep ten hours and still wake up exhausted, and there is a dull heaviness hanging over everything that I have decided must be stress because the alternative is that I am somehow getting sick on top of everything else.

I have left the apartment. Technically. I have gone downstairs for mail, walked three blocks to the pharmacy and forced myself into the office once long enough to collect a few things and reassure everyone that I am alive. That should count for something.

The knock at my door tells me Chloe disagrees.

I drag myself off the sofa and cross the apartment, still wrapped in the oversized cardigan I have been wearing most of the day. When I open the door, Chloe is standing there with two grocery bags hooked over one arm and another paper bag balanced against her hip.

She looks at me for less than a second before her mouth tightens.

“You look terrible,” Chloe says.

“Thank you,” I reply. “I missed you too.”

“You know what I mean.”

“I know exactly what you mean.”

She walks past me before I can invite her in and carries everything straight toward the kitchen.

“I brought soup, crackers, ginger ale, tea, bananas and a few things that qualify as actual food if you decide to rejoin civilization,” Chloe says.

I close the door behind her.

“You did not need to bring half of Manhattan.”

“You told me yesterday that you had toast for dinner.”

“I had two pieces.”

Chloe turns and stares at me.

I lift one shoulder. “Fine. One and a half.”