Chapter 12 #2
When we finally reach that peak together, she cries out my name, and I bury my face in her neck, breathing in her scent, trying to commit every sensation to memory, as I spill deep inside her body. For a moment I hope this gets her pregnant, and that she can't leave, but I know that's not fair.
Afterward, we lie tangled together, her head on my chest, my arm around her shoulders. The fire has burned down to embers, and the room is filled with a comfortable darkness.
"That was..." Joy trails off, her fingers tracing idle patterns on my skin.
"Yeah," I agree, knowing exactly what she means.
We're quiet for a long time, both of us lost in our own thoughts. I should probably go back to my own room, check on Alana, maintain some kind of boundary so that I can survive when she leaves. But I can't bring myself to move. Not yet.
"Winter?" Joy's voice is small in the darkness.
"Yeah?"
"Thank you. For tonight. For the past few days. For everything."
I press a kiss to the top of her head. "You don't have to thank me."
"I do, though." She shifts, propping herself up on one elbow to look at me. "These past few days have been the happiest I've been in years. Being here with you and Alana, feeling like I'm part of a small family. I didn't realize how much I missed it until I had it again."
My heart clenches. "Joy..."
"I'm not saying this to make you feel bad," she continues quickly. "I'm saying it because you deserve to know. You deserve to know that leaving tomorrow is going to be one of the hardest things I've ever done."
"Then don't," I say before I can stop myself. "Don't leave. Please stay."
She closes her eyes, and a tear slides down her cheek. "I wish it were that simple."
"It could be." I sit up, bringing her with me, not wanting to let her go. It's ripping my heart out to let her go. "Joy, it really could be. You could stay here, with us. We could figure it out together."
"My life…"
"Could be here…"
She's shaking her head before I even finish. "It's not that easy, Winter. I have responsibilities, commitments. I can't just walk away from my entire life."
"Why not?" I challenge, my voice harder than I mean for it to be. "You did it before."
She flinches like I've slapped her, and immediately I regret the words.
"I'm sorry," I say quickly. "That wasn't fair."
"No, you're right." She pulls away, reaching for her shirt. This quiet moment between us ruined. "I did walk away before. And look how that worked out."
"That's not what I meant." I grab her hand, stopping her from getting dressed. "Joy, please. I'm not trying to fight with you. I'm just trying to understand."
"Understand what?" She turns to face me, and there's anguish written all over her face.
"That I'm terrified? That the thought of staying here and building a life with you and Alana is everything I want, but also everything that scares me?
That I don't know if I'm brave enough to take that risk again? "
"Again?" I shake my head, confused. "Joy, you left. You walked away from the risk. I'm the one asking you to take it. There were no risks for you before."
"And what if I do?" Her voice breaks. "What if I stay, and we try this, and it doesn't work?
What if I'm not cut out to be a stepmom?
What if I resent giving up my Indianapolis?
What if you realize I'm not the person you remembered, and you regret asking me to stay?
We don't know each other like we used to.
Being around one another for a few days isn't the same as months and years. "
"That won't happen."
"You don't know that." She's crying openly now. "Winter, you can't promise me that. Nobody can."
She's right, and I hate it. I can't guarantee her a happy ending. I can't promise that everything will work out perfectly if she stays. Life doesn't work that way. We're proof of that.
But I can promise that I'll try. That I'll do everything in my power to make her happy, to make this work.
Before I can say any of that, though, she's pulling away, finding the rest of her clothes in the darkness.
"I should get some sleep," she says, her voice hollow. "Tomorrow's going to be a long day."
"Joy, please. Let's talk about this." I feel colder than I have, even the last few days being out in this storm.
"There's nothing to talk about." She's dressed now, standing by the bed. "We both knew this was just for a short time."
"It doesn't have to be."
She leans down and kisses me, soft and sad.
"Thank you for tonight, Winter. I'll treasure it.
I'll treasure all of this. But tomorrow I might have to go back to my real life.
And you will have to stay here and keep being an amazing dad to Alana.
Run this lodge, and make sure your employees are taken care of. "
She's at the door before I can respond, her hand on the knob.
"Joy," I call out, desperate to make her stay, to make her see that this doesn't have to end. "This is your room."
She pauses, looking back at me. In the dim light, I can see the tears on her cheeks, the pain in her eyes.
"Goodnight, Winter. I'll be back in an hour, please be gone," she whispers.
And then I don't see her anymore, the door closing softly behind her, leaving me alone in the darkness with nothing but the memory of what we just shared and the fear that I've lost her all over again.
I fall back onto the bed, staring at the ceiling, my mind racing. Tomorrow this might all end, and I go back to my life without her in it.
I've done it before. I survived it before. I can survive it again.
But God, I don't want to.
I don't want to watch her drive away. I don't want to explain to Alana why Joy isn't coming back. I don't want to spend the next ten years wondering what if, the same way I've spent the last ten years.
I want her to stay. I want us to have a chance. I want to build the life we should have had all those years ago.
But wanting something doesn't make it happen. And tomorrow, when she gets in her car and drives away, all the wanting in the world won't be enough to make her stay.
Unless she decides she wants it too.
And that's the terrifying part. Because I can't make that decision for her. All I can do is hope that these few days have meant as much to her as they have to me. That somewhere in her heart, she remembers what we had and wants to find it again.
I close my eyes, trying to hold onto the feeling of her in my arms, the sound of her laughter, the way she looked at Alana like a mother should.
Tomorrow she may leave.
But tonight, for a few brief hours, she was mine.
And maybe, that will have to be enough.