Chapter 7 Blowup #2
I HAD been treating him like that. A safe harbor. A place to escape when the storm got too loud. I came to his shop when I needed quiet, left when I needed to deal with reality, and never once asked myself what that meant for him. Whether I was using him. Whether he deserved better.
“I didn’t mean to—”
“I know.” He cut me off, not unkind but firm. “You never mean to. But intention doesn’t change impact.”
“Then let me fix it. Let me prove—”
“How? By coming here again tomorrow? Sitting in my chair, drinking my tea, making me hope for something you’re not willing to commit to?
” He shook his head. “I spent two years learning how to be alone. I can do it for the rest of my life if I have to. What I can’t do is stand here and wait for you to figure out if I’m worth choosing. ”
“You ARE worth—”
“Then choose me.” His voice was raw. “Right now. Close every other door. Tell me I’m not an option—I’m THE option. The only one.”
I opened my mouth.
Nothing came out.
Because I wanted to say it. God, I wanted to say it. But the words stuck in my throat, tangled up with five years of fear and a marriage that had taught me my judgment couldn’t be trusted and the absolute terror of committing to something that might hurt me.
Marcus watched my silence. Nodded slowly, like he’d expected it.
“That’s what I thought.”
“Marcus, please—”
“I like you, Diane.” His voice was quiet now, almost gentle.
“God help me, I like you more than I’ve liked anyone since Sarah.
More than I wanted to like anyone ever again.
” He exhaled slowly. “But I can’t be your escape hatch.
I can’t be the peaceful option you keep in your back pocket while you decide if something better might come along. I deserve better than that.”
He paused. Met my eyes.
“So do you.”
“Please. Just let me—”
“Goodbye, Diane.”
He closed the door.
I heard the lock click.
And I stood on the sidewalk, phone buzzing in my pocket, and felt something inside me crack open.
I don’t know how long I stood there.
Minutes, maybe. Or hours. Time had stopped meaning anything. There was just the closed door, and the darkened shop, and the hollow, ringing silence where Marcus used to be.
A woman walked past with her dog. Gave me a concerned look. I probably looked insane—standing frozen on the sidewalk, staring at a closed door, tears I hadn’t noticed streaming down my face.
When had I started crying?
The phone kept buzzing—6,987 matches, 7,012, 7,045—demanding attention, demanding I look at all the options, all the possibilities, all the doors I’d kept open because I was too scared to walk through any of them.
I didn’t want any of them.
For the first time since this nightmare started, I looked at the numbers—thousands of possibilities, infinite options—and felt nothing.
Not interest. Not curiosity. Not even the familiar comfort of at least I have choices.
Just emptiness.
Because none of them were Marcus.
None of them had made me tea without asking. None of them had cleared a chair just for me. None of them had shared stories about their dead wife and made me laugh about Victorian mourning hair. None of them had looked at me—really looked—and demanded I be more than what I was showing the world.
None of them had called me out.
That was it. The thing that made Marcus different. He didn’t let me hide. He saw the terrified mess underneath all my jokes and deflections, and instead of accepting it, he’d demanded I do better.
Not in a Todd way—not criticizing, not making me feel like a failure. In a way that said I see you. I know you can be more. I’m waiting for you to prove it.
And I’d frozen.
He’d asked me to choose him, and I’d frozen.
The same way I’d frozen with the architect who said “expecially.” The same way I’d frozen with every man who’d gotten close enough to see the real me. The same way I’d been freezing for five years, too scared to commit to anything because commitment meant risk and risk meant pain.
But not committing was pain too. Just a different kind.
Marcus’s pain, waiting for someone who couldn’t say yes. My pain, watching the best thing I’d found in years walk away because I was too scared to reach for it. The quiet, grinding pain of a life spent keeping every door open and never walking through any of them.
So you’ll waste the rest of your life on nothing instead?
The question echoed in my head. His voice, raw and desperate, asking me the thing I’d been avoiding for five years.
What was I so afraid of?
Choosing wrong, yes. Getting hurt, obviously. But underneath that—what was the real fear? The one I’d never let myself look at directly?
It hit me like a punch to the chest.
I was afraid of being seen.
Todd had made me feel invisible, and it had nearly broken me. I’d spent five years since then making sure no one ever got close enough to really see me—the scared parts, the broken parts, the parts that still wondered if I was too much and not enough all at once.
But Marcus had seen me anyway. And instead of running, he’d stayed. He’d made me tea and cleared me a chair and listened to my chaos and called me out when I was hiding.
He’d seen me. And he’d still wanted to choose me.
Until I’d made it clear I couldn’t choose him back.
I stared at the closed door. At the dark shop. At the place where Marcus was, alone, probably convincing himself I’d never change.
He was wrong.
I was going to prove him wrong.
Not because he’d demanded it. Not because I wanted to win an argument. But because for the first time in five years, I wanted something more than I wanted to be safe.
I wanted him.
And that was terrifying. And wonderful. And absolutely worth fighting for.
I started walking home, phone buzzing in my pocket, tears still wet on my face. But something had shifted. Something had cracked open.
For the first time in my life, I was going to have to fight for something instead of running from it.
I had no idea if I could do it.
But I was going to try.