Chapter 31 Hannah
Hannah
I gasped at the cold, breath burning in my throat. My body coiled instinctively, trying to protect against the brutal air. But I’d take the vicious, honest cold over the suffocating warmth of his concern.
I fumbled for my phone, needing to move, needing to get away from that apartment.
“Did you survive?” Teresa answered on the first ring.
I tried to answer but what came out was a sob.
“Oh shit. What happened? Did Mom insult his pie?”
“We didn’t even get to the pie.” I kept walking, my breath coming in gasps. “Connor kicked them out. Dad called me a whore and Connor threw them out.”
“Good. I knew I liked him,” she said. “So why are you crying?”
“Because then he tried to fix everything.” The words tumbled out as I walked faster. “Checking my pulse, planning my interview strategy, making lists… Teresa, I can’t breathe when he gets like that.”
“Oh, Han.”
“We broke up.” I stopped to sit on the bench outside the apartment building, the cold metal biting through my jeans. “I told him I needed air and I just… left.”
“Turn around, Eddie,” Teresa said immediately. “We’re coming to get you.”
Behind me, I heard the apartment foyer door open. “Hannah?”
I turned. Connor stood shivering in the doorway, holding both our winter coats.
Of course. When I’d wanted him to fight for me and ask me to stay, he’d given me space. But now that I wanted space, here he was, making sure he didn’t freeze. He hadn’t even put on his own coat before coming after me.
“He’s here,” I said into the phone. “I have to go.”
“Call me if you need me. We’re ten minutes out.”
I ended the call and turned away, not wanting to look at him. If I looked at him, I’d see the hurt in his eyes and I’d break.
But he didn’t leave. I could hear him behind me, his breathing rough and uneven in the cold air.
“I get why you’re breaking up with me. I do,” he said, raw and uncertain. “But if I’m the reason you get frostbite, I’ll never forgive myself.”
“That’s the problem,” I said, still not turning around. “You’re still trying to fix me.”
“I know. I—” He made a frustrated sound. “I know that. I just don’t know what else to do.”
I finally stood, turning to face him. He looked wrecked—hair disheveled from running his hands through it, shirt untucked, eyes red.
“Put on your coat,” I said sharply. He looked down at the two coats in his hands, confused. “I’m not putting mine on until you put on yours. Put on your goddamn coat, Connor.”
He fumbled with them, finally dragging his arms through the sleeves of his inadequate jacket. Only then did I reach for mine, pulling it on and tugging the hood around my face.
He shifted against the wind, shivering. That thin fabric was no match for upstate New York winter.
“You’re going to need a thicker jacket for winter in New York,” I said, pulling my gloves out of my pockets.
“It was warm enough for San Francisco,” he said, tucking his face into the collar because he'd rather freeze than be an inconvenience. “But I didn’t want to buy something new I’d just have to pack.”
There it was again—the reminder that he was leaving. He was always leaving.
And I wasn’t sure if I was going with him.
But I was still going to that interview, either way. I wanted that job. Not to prove something to my parents, but because I knew I’d be goddamn great at it. He may have opened the door, but I was ready to step through, whether or not he was beside me.
And then, he said the best, worst thing he could say: “I’m sorry.”
The breath I sucked in tightened my lungs.
Sebastian had never apologized. Not once.
“I should have asked you first, before the interview, before kicking out your parents. And I shouldn’t have tried to manage everything for you. I fucked up.”
My chest tightened. I hadn’t expected him to admit it.
“I have this thing,” he said, forcing the words out, “where I try to solve any problem I see. It’s what I do for Victoria. It’s what I did for my mom when she was sick. And I—” He swallowed hard. “I did it to you. And that wasn’t fair.”
The tension in my shoulders loosened slightly. “No,” I said quietly. “It wasn’t.”
He took a breath, regrouping. “I have something to show you.”
He pulled out that damn notebook, with his endless lists and schedules and contingency plans.
I almost turned and walked away right then. But something in his expression stopped me.
“I’ve been making lists for weeks,” he said, his breath visible in the cold air. His hands were shaking as he opened the notebook. “I’ve been trying to figure out how to make this work, make us work.”
He held out the notebook, and against my better judgment, I took it and flipped to a list dated last week.
If Hannah Doesn’t Get the Job:
? Calculate long-distance travel costs Saratoga-NYC
? Memorize MetroNorth schedule
? Buy a car so I can drive up for weekends
? Look into remote work & flexible scheduling options
? Find out if there are other accounting positions Hannah might want
? Research bartending positions in Manhattan
? Tell Hannah I love her regardless of the job
I read it twice. Then turned the page to another list: How to Survive Long Distance. And the next page: Ways to Convince Hannah to Let Me Support Her While She Figures Out What She Wants.
“They’re all wrong, I realize that now,” Connor said, his voice cracking. “Because they’re all about what I can do.” He took a shaky breath. “I don’t know how to love someone without a plan, Hannah. I don’t know how to just… be. Without fixing.”
I stared at the lists that were simultaneously the most Connor thing I’d ever seen… and completely missing the point.
“The lists aren’t the problem,” I said slowly. “You making contingency plans for us—that’s sweet. Neurotic, but sweet.” I touched the edge of the notebook. “The problem is you made them without me. You’re planning my life like I’m not part of the equation.”
“I just wanted to be ready—”
“For what? Every possible scenario where I might need you?” I looked down at his careful handwriting. “Connor, I don’t need you to have all the answers. I don’t need you to fix my problems or protect me from failure.”
“Then what do you need? Tell me what you need and I’ll—” He stopped, seeming to realize what he was doing even as he did it.
“I need you to ask,” I said. “Ask what I want instead of assuming you know.”
He took a ragged breath, then looked up at the sky like he was gathering his thoughts. I kept silent, my heart aching at the pained pinch in his brow.
“When my mom got sick,” Connor said as he pulled into himself, arms wrapped tight across his chest, “I made lists. Medication schedules. Doctor appointments. Symptoms to watch for. Physical therapy routines. Meal plans for when she couldn’t swallow properly anymore.”
Oh. Oh god.
“I thought if I could just anticipate every problem, track every symptom… maybe I could slow it down. Maybe I could keep her longer.” He looked at me then, his eyes red. “She still died. I did everything right. Every single thing. And she still died. And I couldn’t fix it. I couldn’t save her.”
My anger cracked, leaving me feeling like my ribs couldn’t hold my heart inside anymore.
“And with you—” His voice broke completely now. “I thought if I could prove I was useful enough—then maybe you wouldn’t leave. Maybe I’d be worth keeping around.”
My throat went tight.
Sebastian had controlled me because he needed the power. He needed to be right, needed me to make him look good.
Connor was trying to earn love by being indispensable. Trying to prove his worth through usefulness.
He wiped at his face. “I’ve spent every Christmas alone for three years.
And tonight I made my mom’s recipes. I tried so hard to make everything perfect so your parents would see you the way I do.
And then…” His voice cracked. “And then you just walked out.
Just like you moved out of my room to the couch.
When I asked you to come to the wedding, you suggested an exit clause.
" He took a ragged breath. "Every time I think I mean something to you, you leave. And I’m left standing there trying to figure out what I did wrong.”
Shit. He’d been alone on Christmas, and this year he’d finally worked through it by cooking his mom’s recipes—and I’d walked out on him.
I ran every time things got hard. Moved to the couch when intimacy scared me. Walked out into the cold rather than staying to fight.
Neither of us was blameless. His suffocating care and my constant retreat.
But at least we could see it now, talk about it instead of hiding from it.
He looked at me directly, eyes raw. “I’ve felt so lonely since I lost her… but it hasn’t felt that way since I met you. But I don’t know how to make you happy, I don’t know how to be enough.”
“You’re enough,” I said quietly. “Just you. Without the lists or the planning or the fixing. You’re enough.”
He shook his head. “I’m not. I’m just—” He gestured helplessly. “I’m just a guy who loves you and doesn’t know how to show it without trying to control it.”
We were both shivering now. Both too stubborn to go inside until this was resolved.
“I don’t have a plan for how to do this differently,” he admitted, and there was something naked in his voice. Vulnerable. “I don’t have a five-step process for being a better partner.”
He took a shaky breath. “But I want to learn. I want to try.” His voice cracked, and when those brown eyes met mine, they were fearful but honest, tinged with hope.
I looked at him—shivering in the cold, no careful control. Uncertain and terrified and asking for help instead of trying to provide it.
“Before you recommend me for anything—a job, an introduction, anything—you ask me first,” I said. “Before you make plans for us, you include me.”
“Okay.” He nodded immediately. “I can do that.”
“And I need you to tell me what you need.” I stepped closer. “What do you need from me, Connor?”
He blinked, like the question surprised him.
“I need—” He stopped, regrouping. “I need you to tell me when I’m being too much.
When I’m overstepping.” His voice dropped to a whisper.
“I need you to stay even when I mess this up. Because I’m going to mess it up.
I’m going to slip. And I need you to call me on it instead of just leaving. ”
“I can do that. I can stay and fight,” I said. “But you have to actually listen when I do.”
“I’ll try.” He wiped at his face roughly. “I can’t promise I’ll get it right. But I’ll try.”
I looked at him for a long moment, really seeing him—not the competent executive or the perfect caretaker. Just a man who’d learned that love meant making yourself indispensable and was terrified of what happened when you stopped.
“I want that job,” I said suddenly. “Not because you recommended me, or so my parents can brag. I want it because I miss the work. I miss feeling like my brain matters, like I’m building something that lasts longer than a cocktail.”
Connor’s lips parted in surprise.
“And I want to move to New York with you,” I said.
“Not because you made a list of reasons to convince me. Because I want to see if we can build something together. Something messy and imperfect and ours.” I reached out, wrapping his bare hand in my gloved fingers.
“I’m choosing us. But only if you can let me be an equal partner.
Not a project. Not someone who needs managing. Just… me.”
“Just you,” he repeated, and he pulled me close, wrapping his arms around me. I could feel him shaking—from cold or emotion, probably both. “That’s all I want. Just you.”
“We’re going to fuck this up,” I said, my voice muffled against him. “We’re going to fight and misunderstand each other and drive each other crazy.”
“Probably.” His arms tightened around me. “But we’ll figure it out. Together.”
“Together,” I agreed.
We stood there in the December cold, holding each other, both of us shivering.
“We should go inside,” Connor finally said. “Before we get hypothermia.”
“Probably.”
Neither of us moved.
“I love you,” he said. “I know I said it before, but I need you to know—I love you. Not the version of you I think I can create. Just you. Messy and imperfect and struggling and brilliant. You.”
“I love you too.” I tilted my head up to look at him. “Even when you’re driving me crazy with your lists and your planning and your need to fix everything.”
He kissed me, and his lips were cold but his warm breath puffed against my cheek. When we broke apart, we were both crying, both smiling, both freezing.
“Get a room, you two,” Teresa called from Eddie’s car. “You know you live inside, right?”
Laughing, I pulled back from Connor, but he didn’t let go of my waist.
“Sorry to make you come back,” I called.
“Worth it for pie,” Teresa said as Eddie parked. “Connor kicked out Mom and Dad. I’m not missing that victory dessert.”
Connor didn’t let go of my hand as we walked back toward the apartment. Inside, he hung our coats and brought our joined hands to his mouth to warm them as Teresa and Eddie came in behind us.
“You two okay?” Teresa asked carefully.
“We will be,” I said, squeezing Connor’s hand. “We’re going to try.”
"Good." Teresa grinned. "Because you're a lucky bitch. You got the one man who cleans the bathroom without being asked."
Eddie cleared his throat. "I can hire cleaners, babe."
"Not the same," she grinned.
Connor pulled plates from the cabinet. "Pie?"
"Obviously," Teresa said.
"For victory pie, we need celebratory drinks too, right?" I pulled out vodka and Kahlúa … then found Connor's peppermint mocha creamer.
Connor's mouth quirked at my collection of spirits. "The bar abides."
Teresa and Eddie settled at the counter while Connor cut into his mom's perfect lattice pie and I handed out drinks.
"To new beginnings and happy endings," Connor said, raising his glass as he took my hand.
The apartment was a mess from the ruined dinner, boxes still half-packed for his move—our move. But none of that mattered tonight. We'd figure it out. Together.