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I can’t sign this. I can’t take this man’s work from him. He’s birthed it, lived and breathed it for years. As much as I would love for my own father to recognize me someday, I would never buy his affections by selling Evan’s blood, sweat, and tears, then pocketing the cash. Nor would I want Douglas’s affection if Stratus is the price.

If I have to choose between loyalty to the man who helped give me life or the man I pledged my future to, there’s really no choice.

I miss Evan so much. Christmas was awful. I spent the morning with Lorenzo and Guilia. Mateo offered me “comfort” as he dropped his hand to my thigh. I elbowed him in the stomach and flipped him the bird. Stephen picked me up for the evening. We shared pictures and swapped childhood stories. When I refused his offer of wine, he figured out I’m pregnant. Then he asked me what had gone wrong between Evan and me. Sad and lonely and heartbroken, I cried in his arms and explained. As he held me, he promised that Evan wouldn’t give up. He swore that Evan loves me.

My brother was right. I knew it even then…but is love enough? What good is it without trust? If Evan can’t believe I would always be his helpmate and his champion—that I would always choose him—how could we stay together?

I never expected him to prove how much he loves me by tossing aside every shred of his logic and sacrificing his future simply to say he’s sorry. He’s making me rethink my decision to end this and go.

I don’t want to open the last envelope, the one I know holds divorce papers. I stare at it like a snake, terrified it will bite me. The heartache of even holding these documents sears my veins like venom, wrecking me.

With a gasp, I toss the closed envelope on the hall table. I’m not opening it. I don’t want to read what’s inside. I don’t even want to touch the documents.

Now that the opportunity to be free is in front of me, I don’t want a divorce.

Where does that leave me?

Evan hurt me with his wild, awful accusations; I can’t deny that. But to never see him again, never hold him, never share the joy of our baby or our tomorrows with him?

My breath shudders as I close my eyes. I’m not ready to face that possibility. I resigned from my job and changed my number in anger. I cleaned out my desk and refused to answer my door because I wasn’t ready to forgive him. I stayed away over the holidays because I knew that if I looked at him once… Well, I love him too much to hold out.

And now every shred of my anger is gone. A seven-hundred-pound sorrow sits in its place, crushing my chest.

I’m putting everything in your hands, for you to decide.

But what decision should I make?

Things aren’t perfect between us…but I don’t want perfect. I want our push-pull. I want our silly debates about head versus heart. I want to teach him to vacuum. I want him to show me quantum physics. I want to curl up on the couch and watch him grapple to comprehend some of my favorite goofy films. I want to grow old with him.

The tears that began spilling during his heartfelt apology become a wrenching sob. I hold the wall for support, but still feel as if I’ll crumble if he doesn’t hold me.

I first fell in love with Evan James Cook when he glanced at me across his cheap rented desk, my résumé in his hand, and proceeded not to ask boring questions about my work experience or where I saw myself in five years. Instead, he tested my grit by asking about a time I wanted something so badly that I was unstoppable in pursuing it. Then he inquired about my sense of curiosity, wanting to know the last thing that made me geek out. He inquired about teamwork, ownership, and organizational impact. He wasn’t just looking for a cute assistant; he wanted someone with a brain. And he had such an interesting one of his own.

Oh, I dated off and on over the years I worked for him, tried to fall in love with someone who wasn’t already married.

I was utterly, wholly, ridiculously unsuccessful.

I’m still in love with Evan James Cook.

You can have him.

The voice in my head is coming straight from my heart. It’s impulsive. But I need to be rational, think of my future. Can I be with this man? He might always struggle with trust and emotion. He’ll be better at solving Mensa puzzles than sharing his feelings. He will never be an easy man to live with. But I love him so much and he’s come so far to not just tell me but show me that he loves me.

How can I not choose life with him?

My head spins as I lean against the wall and resist the urge to call him back until I’ve thought this through.

As I rest my forehead against the cool drywall and try not to cry, my knee bumps something. My startled gasp is loud in the silence until I realize it’s the package Evan brought with him. The painting he made.

Of us.

I have to see.

My heartbeat slams against my chest quick and hard as I tear into the paper and rip it away with one hand. With the other, I turn on the quirky chandelier in my foyer. When the space is illuminated, I find myself looking at the back of the canvas.

Breath held, I turn it around.

Against a soft gray background, a man and a woman sit facing each other, hands clasped as they look into one another’s eyes, legs twined. They have no color, no age, no identifying characteristics except the devotion in their eyes. They’re soul mates. They’re equals.