Chapter 32 #2
I look at Reid again. He's looking back at me now, and there's something in his expression I can't quite read. He looks guarded.
I don't want to lose this. I don't want to lose him.
But I also don't want to lie—not to Dr. Parker, not to Reid, not to myself.
"Can I think about it?" I ask.
"Of course. But I do need to know soon. There are other people I could call, but honestly? You're my first choice. You've always been exceptional at this work, Laine."
We chat for a few more minutes about logistics—the specific location, the funding source, what the local government situation looks like. I'm filing it all away, but most of my attention is on Reid. The way he's standing too still. The way he won't look at me again.
Say something, I think at him. Ask me not to go. Tell me you need me here.
He doesn't.
When I finally hang up, the kitchen feels different. Smaller. Colder.
The French toast is still sitting on the counter. The corner piece, all that syrup.
I'm not hungry anymore.
"Big opportunity," Reid says finally. His voice is careful. Neutral.
"It is." I set my phone down on the counter. My hand's not quite steady. "Dr. Parker wants me to help build a clinic in Honduras. Three-year commitment."
"That's incredible." He uncrosses his arms, shoves his hands in his pockets instead. "That's the kind of work you used to do, right?"
Used to do. Past tense. Like it's already behind me.
"This would be different. More permanent. Building something sustainable." I'm watching his face, trying to read him. "Complete creative control over the whole program."
"Sounds like you would be great at it."
He means it. I can tell he means it. So why does it feel like he's pushing me out the door?
"It would be," I say quietly. "But I have a life here now. I have you."
Something flickers across his face. Gone before I can name it.
"When would it start?"
"Six weeks. I have to decide within a week."
His jaw tightens. "A week."
"I know it's fast—"
"It's not about the timing." He pushes off from the counter, moves toward the window. Looks out at the parking lot like it's suddenly fascinating. "This is what you've been trained for. This is the chance to make the kind of impact you've always wanted."
"Reid, I haven't even decided if I'm interested."
"You're interested." He says it without turning around. "I watched you on that call. You lit up."
Did I? I don't remember. I was too busy watching him shut down.
"Being interested doesn't mean I want to go."
"Doesn't it?"
"No." I cross the kitchen toward him. "It doesn't. I can be interested in the project and still choose something else."
He turns around. His expression is strange—too calm, too composed.
"You shouldn't have to choose. That's the point." He takes a breath. "Four months ago, you didn't know I existed. You've spent your entire career preparing for an opportunity like this."
"So?"
"So don't throw that away because we're good together."
Good together. He told me he loved me three weeks ago. I said it back. I meant it.
Did he?
"Is that what you think this is? Just good?"
"That's not what I meant—"
"Then what did you mean?"
"I meant—" He stops. Runs his hand through his hair. Starts again. "I don't want to be the reason you stay in one place. I don't want what we have to become a cage."
A cage. This morning I was feeding him French toast off my fork. He was kissing my neck. I was thinking about dragging him back to bed and staying there all day.
And he's calling it a cage.
"You, stuck here because you're afraid to leave. Me, wondering if you're staying because you want to or because you feel like you have to." He's looking at me now, really looking, and there's something raw underneath the calm. "That's not love, Laine. That's settling."
Settling. The word hits like a slap.
"I'm not settling."
"Aren't you?" His voice cracks, just slightly. "You came here to build a permanent life, and the first real test is a phone call that has you shaking."
"I'm not shaking because I want to leave." My voice is rising now. I can't help it. "I'm shaking because I don't know what I want, and you're standing there acting like you've already made the decision for me."
"I'm not—"
"You are. You're literally telling me to go."
"Because I've seen what happens when someone stays for the wrong reasons!"
The words echo in my kitchen. Too loud. Too raw.
Reid's breathing hard. His hands are clenched at his sides.
"What does that mean?" I ask. Quieter now. "What do you mean, you've seen what happens?"
He doesn't answer. Just stands there, jaw tight, looking at a spot somewhere over my shoulder.
"Reid."
"It doesn't matter."
"It clearly matters."
"Just—" He turns away from me. Grips the edge of the counter with both hands, knuckles white. "After Jared died. There was someone."
I go very still.
"She was there through all of it. The funeral. The aftermath." His voice is flat now. Distant. Like he's reading from a script. "She stayed because she thought she was supposed to. Because leaving would've made her the bad guy."
I don't say anything. I barely breathe.
"But she couldn't handle it. The nightmares. The days I couldn't get out of bed. The anger." He laughs, but there's no humor in it. "I was a lot, back then. Too much. And she stayed anyway, because she felt obligated. And then one day she just... didn't."
"Reid—"
"She left a note." He's still gripping the counter. Still not looking at me. "Said she was sorry, but she couldn't do it anymore. Said she hoped I'd understand someday."
My chest aches. He's never mentioned her. Not once, in four months.
"I'm not her," I say.
"I know you're not."
"Then why are you acting like I'm going to do the same thing?"
He finally turns around. His eyes are red-rimmed. Bright.
"Because everyone leaves, Laine." The words come out quiet. Almost resigned. "That's what people do. They stay until it gets hard, and then they leave. And I can't—" His voice breaks. "I can't watch you choose me and then regret it. I can't be the reason you gave up your life."
"You wouldn't be."
"You don't know that."
"Neither do you."
We stand there, three feet apart, the kitchen full of cold French toast and stale coffee and words neither of us knows how to take back.
"I should go," Reid says finally. "Give you space to think."
"I don't need space. I need you to talk to me."
"I can't." He's already moving toward the door, grabbing his keys from the hook. "Not about this. Not right now."
"Reid, please—"
He stops with his hand on the doorknob. Doesn't turn around.
"Figure out what you want," he says. "Really want. Not what you think you should want, or what would make me happy. What you want."
"And what if what I want is you?"
He's exhales heavily. When he speaks, his voice is barely above a whisper.
"Then I need to know you're not going to wake up in five years and realize you made a mistake."
The door opens. Closes.
I stand in my kitchen, alone.
The French toast is still sitting on the counter. Cold now. Congealed syrup.
Everyone leaves.
Is that what he really thinks? Is that what five years of grief and one woman's note taught him?
I think about calling him. Going after him.
I don't.
Instead, I pick up the plate of French toast and scrape it into the trash. Wash the plate. Dry it. Put it away.
Busy hands. Quiet mind.
It doesn't work.
There was someone.
He never told me. Four months of lazy Saturdays and midnight conversations and falling asleep tangled together, and he never once mentioned her.
What else hasn't he told me?
I lean against the counter, right where he was standing. Try to imagine what it felt like to be him—twenty-something, grieving his brother, and the person who was supposed to love him just... left.
Has he been waiting for me to leave since the day we met?
My phone buzzes. For one wild second, I think it's him.
It's Dr. Parker. A follow-up email. So wonderful to talk! Here's the info we discussed. Can't wait to hear your decision.
I don't open it.
Instead, I sit down at my kitchen table, in the chair Reid was sitting in an hour ago, and I try to figure out what the heck I actually want.