Chapter 22 #2
In my books, the heroes fight for love. They don't give up. They find ways to show the heroine that they've changed, that they're worthy of a second chance, that their love is strong enough to overcome whatever obstacles stand in their way.
But this isn't a book. This is real life. And in real life, sometimes the kindest thing you can do is step back. Respect someone's wishes. Give them space even when every cell in your body is screaming to fight for them.
Jessica asked me to leave her alone.
So I will.
Even if it kills me.
The afternoon drags on in a haze of misery.
I try to write. Can't focus. The words that usually come so easily feel locked behind a door I can't open.
I try to eat. The sandwich tastes like cardboard. I throw half of it away.
I try to read. End up staring at the same page for twenty minutes without absorbing a single word.
Around four o'clock, Grayson shows up.
He doesn't knock. Just uses his emergency key and walks in like he owns the place.
“You look terrible,” he announces.
“Thanks. That's very helpful.”
“You're still wearing the khakis.”
I look down. He's right. I'm still in the sandy beach clothes. The sunscreen-and-regret outfit. “I didn't notice.”
“Scott.” Grayson sits on the arm of my expensive couch. “Michelle told me what happened at the beach with Penelope and Jessica's ex-husband.”
“Great. So everyone knows.”
“Everyone knows Penelope started something and David made it worse. No one knows the actual details.” He studies me. “Want to fill me in?”
So I do. I tell him everything—the kiss, the umbrella, the moment I thought everything was finally going to be okay. Penelope's calculated cruelty. David grabbing Jessica's arm. My threat that I'm still not sure I regret.
And then the building. The truth coming out in the worst possible way.
“She said I was no different from him,” I finish. “Her ex. She said I was control dressed up in good intentions.”
Grayson is quiet for a moment. “Were you?”
“I don't know. Maybe. I bought her building without telling her. I made decisions about her business without asking. I thought I was helping, but...” I trail off.
“But she didn't ask to be helped, did she?
She asked to be treated like a partner. Like an equal.
And instead I just...handled things. Like she couldn't deal with them herself.”
“You were trying to protect her.”
“That's what David probably told himself too.”
Grayson winces. “Okay. That's a good point.”
“I just got off the phone with Rodney. I'm pulling the book.”
“Are you serious? You can’t do that?”
“I have to. It’s the only way. I’m canceling the cover reveal and giving her space.” I stare at the harbor. “And I hope that someday she can forgive me, even if we never—even if this is it.”
“That's your plan? Just...wait and hope?”
“She asked me to leave her alone. I'm leaving her alone.”
“That's not romantic. That's giving up.”
“It's respecting her wishes.”
“It's being a coward.”
“Maybe.” I shrug. “But I've spent months making decisions for her. Maybe it's time I let her make the next one.”
Grayson looks like he wants to argue, but he doesn't. He just sits with me in the silence of my expensive empty condo, watching the afternoon light fade over the harbor.
“For what it's worth,” he finally says, “Michelle thinks Jessica just needs time. She's not gone forever. She's just...processing.”
“What if she processes and decides I'm not worth the trouble?”
“Then you'll deal with that when it happens.” He stands up. “But for now? Take a shower. Change out of those ridiculous pants. And maybe eat something that isn't self-pity.”
“That's your advice?”
“My advice is to not give up. But since you're clearly not going to take that advice, the shower thing is my backup plan.”
He leaves, and I'm alone again with my thoughts and my sandy khakis and the ghost of a kiss I'll probably remember for the rest of my life.
I take the shower, change into clean clothes, and then eat half a protein bar because that's all I can manage.
Then I sit at my desk in my writing office and look at the framed review on the wall.
This book reads like the author stopped believing in his own story.
J.A. Reads Romance. Jessica. The woman I love, telling me the truth before I was ready to hear it.
She was right then. She's right now. I stopped believing in my own story somewhere along the way. I got so scared of being vulnerable that I forgot how to be honest.
And when I finally tried to be honest—really honest, in the manuscript and the letters and on that beach with my heart in my hands—I did it all wrong.
I was honest about my feelings but secretive about my actions.
I told her I loved her while hiding the fact that I'd bought her building, that I was planning to announce a book about us, that every decision I made was something I did to her instead of with her.
Love isn't about protecting someone from their own life. It’s about walking through life together.
I understand that now, in the way you only understand things when it's too late to do anything about them.
The manuscript sits in a neat stack on my desk. 312 pages of my most honest work. The story of a man who was so afraid of being vulnerable that he almost missed the love of his life.
Spoiler alert: in my version, he figures it out in time. He makes the grand gesture and gets the girl.
In real life, I'm pulling the book and sitting alone in my condo with a half-eaten protein bar and the growing certainty that I've ruined everything.
Fiction is better because it doesn't make you feel like this.
I pull out my phone and draft an email to Rodney, making it official. Cancel the cover reveal. Pull the preorder campaign. Shelve the manuscript indefinitely. I read it three times, checking for typos, making sure the wording is right.
Then I save it as a draft without sending.
I'll send it tomorrow.
Tonight, I just want to sit with the possibility that there might still be another way. Even though there isn't because I know exactly how this story ends.
Tomorrow I'll do the right thing.
Tonight I'll just miss her.