I close my eyes and let myself remember the moments from that phone call, how he let me stay and watch him handle something that’s difficult for him. That’s trust. That’s partnership. And I guess maybe that’s the lesson for me today. Letting him go, even for a few days, doesn’t make me small. It makes me part of something bigger.
But how come even though I trust Rowan so completely, it still kills me that a phone call can come in and, just like that, his life tilts elsewhere? A bag packed. A plan rearranged. Me left standing in the doorway. It’s getting heavy.
I’ve been telling myself I shouldn’t need him to choose stillness. He’s already drawn lines at work so he won’t be gone so long at one time. Yet every time he goes, I’m worn thinner by the realization that he’s always been good at leaving, and I’ve been too good at pretending I’m okay.
He’s been gone for twenty minutes, and I miss him already.
Opening my eyes, I watch Echo nuzzle her feed as the sound of tires rolling down the driveway comes from the front of the house. A car door slams and footsteps follow before Whitley appears at the porch steps. Sunlight catches her red hair, igniting it like fire against the pale blue sky. Her jeans are streaked with swirls of paint, the sleeves of her tee smudged in every color of the rainbow.
She drops a paper bag on the step beside me. “Bagels. Still warm. And before you ask, yes, I got the everything bagel with extra cream cheese because I know you stress eat carbs.”
I peek inside the bag, the smell of fresh bread making my stomach growl despite the knot of anxiety that’s been sitting there all morning. “How did you know I’d?—”
“Because Rowan left this morning, and you texted me at six a.m. with a thumbs-up emoji and nothing else when I asked if you were okay.” She sits down beside me, close enough that our shoulders touch. “That’s yourI’m fine, but I’m actually dying insidetell.”
I let out a breath that’s half laugh, half sigh. “I hate that you can read me that well.”
“It’s a gift.” She pulls out a bagel and hands it to me before grabbing one for herself. “So. Talk to me. What’s going on in that pretty head of yours?”
I tear off a piece of bagel, not quite meeting her eyes. “I’m fine. Really. He’s just helping someone who needs it.”
“Uh-huh.” Whitley takes a bite, chewing thoughtfully. “And how do you feel about the fact that this someone is a woman he used to sleep with?”
The directness of the question makes me flinch. “I trust him.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
I set the bagel down on my lap, appetite suddenly gone. “I trust him,” I repeat, firmer this time. “I do. But that doesn’t mean it doesn’t…” I trail off, searching for the right words.
“Suck?” Whitley supplies helpfully.
“Yeah.” I laugh, but it comes out hollow. “It sucks.”
She bumps my shoulder with hers. “Look, I’m all for helping people in need. It’s literally my job. But there’s a big difference between helping someone in a professional capacity and dropping everything to fly out of state for someone from a previous fling. You’re allowed to feel whatever you’re feeling, babe.”
I take a bite of my bagel, forcing it down. I miss him so much, it’s like a physical weight pressing into my ribs. My mind keeps flashing to the spaces we share when he’s home—the smell of him leaning over me in the kitchen, the warmth of his hand sliding into mine, the way he laughs at the stupidest things.
Now he’s stretching himself across states, across a part of his past that I don’t fully understand and probably never will, before leaving the country for work.
I tell myself I’m fine. I repeat it like a mantra.I’m fine. I’m fine.But the truth flickers beneath it all—I want him here. I want him to hold me and tell me it’s going to be okay. It terrifies me that wanting him this much still tethers me to the fear of losing him, again.
“I miss him,” I admit.
Whitley’s eyes soften, balancing honesty with warmth. “I know you do, babe. He’s out there doing hard stuff, and you’re here waiting.”
I nod, biting my lip. “Yeah. And it’s stupid, because I know he’s doing the right thing. I think I need another one of your verbal slaps.”
She doesn’t actually slap me with anything, verbal or otherwise. She just laughs before turning fully toward me.
“Okay,” she says gently. “But this one’s more of a pat. Maybe a light shoulder squeeze.”
She blows out a slow breath. “You’re allowed to ask for his presence. You’re allowed to tell him this is hard for you. If he’s the guy you think he is, he won’t hear it as you trying to clip his wings.”
She reaches over and squeezes my knee. “You don’t need to keep pretending you’re made of iron.”
A couple weeks later,I’m staring out the window of my hotel room in Scotland, watching raindrops race down the glass. The view is breathtaking. Rolling green hills disappearing into misty mountains like the scenery people frame and hang above fireplaces.
My phone buzzes in my hand. I answer, heart leaping at the sight of Rowan’s name on the screen. “Hey, you.”