Chapter 18 #2
This problem involves apologizing to a woman I am in love with and convincing her that I am capable of growth and change and not being a complete fool.
Comparatively, this should be simple.
I grab my phone.
I pull up Bliss's contact information, my thumb hovering over the call button.
I stop.
Calling is insufficient.
Bliss deserves a proper apology, delivered in person, with full accountability and a concrete plan for how I will be better.
She deserves a gesture that demonstrates I understand the gravity of my error.
She deserves—
I pause.
She deserves something tactical.
I spend the next six hours planning.
I make lists. I review options. I discard seventeen different approaches before settling on one that feels appropriately direct and sufficiently humble.
At 2100 hours, I get in my car and drive to Bliss's apartment.
I know where she lives.
She put her address in the original gig-work contract, and I have a well-trained memory for logistical details.
Her building is in a significantly nicer neighborhood than mine. The lobby has a doorman. The floors are actual marble instead of vinyl pretending to be marble.
I park on the street and sit in the car, staring up at the lit windows.
I do not know which one is hers.
I check the time.
It is too late to knock on her door unannounced. Showing up at 2100 hours without warning is not romantic. It is vaguely threatening.
I will wait until tomorrow.
I will arrive at a reasonable hour, wearing a clean suit, carrying a verbal apology I have rehearsed to eliminate all potential ambiguities.
I will be calm, respectful, and devastatingly sincere.
I pull away from the curb and drive home.
I do not sleep.
At 0500 hours, I get up, shower, shave, and put on my best suit—the charcoal gray one that Bliss once said made me look "unfairly competent."
I rehearse my apology in the mirror.
"Bliss, I made a significant tactical error. I allowed fear to override logic, and I hurt you in the process. I am asking for the opportunity to prove that I am capable of being the partner you deserve."
Too formal.
"I was scared. I am sorry. Please let me fix this."
Too simple.
"I love you, and I was an idiot."
Accurate, but insufficient.
I try six more variations before giving up and deciding I will have to improvise based on her immediate reaction.
At 0900 hours, I get in the car and drive back to her building.
The doorman eyes me with visible suspicion when I walk into the lobby, which is fair. I am a 6'11" Orc in a formal suit, and I move like someone conducting a threat assessment.
"I am here to see Bliss Vance," I say.
"Is she expecting you?"
"No."
The doorman's hand drifts toward the phone on his desk.
"I am not a threat," I add. "I am apologizing."
He looks unconvinced.
I pull out my phone and show him a picture of Bliss and me at the wedding reception, her head tipped back in laughter, my arm around her waist.
"We had a disagreement," I explain. "I would like to resolve it."
The doorman studies the picture, then studies me, then sighs.
"Fourth floor. Apartment 4C. But if she calls down here and tells me to remove you, I'm calling the cops."
"Understood."
I take the elevator to the fourth floor.
The hallway is quiet and smells faintly like vanilla and cleaning products.
I find apartment 4C.
I stand in front of the door, my heart doing something erratic and unprofessional inside my chest.
I raise my fist.
I knock.
Three solid, deliberate strikes that rattle the frame.
I wait.
Footsteps approach from inside, light and quick.
The door swings open.
Bliss is standing there in an oversized sweatshirt that falls halfway down her thighs, her hair piled on top of her head in a messy knot, her face completely bare of makeup.
She is holding a spoon in one hand and a pint of ice cream in the other.
Our eyes lock.
Her eyes are red.
She has been crying.
My chest compresses in a way that has nothing to do with tactical analysis and everything to do with the fact that I am the reason she looks like this.
"Bliss—"
"No." She cuts me off, her voice flat. "Absolutely not. You don't get to show up here and—"
"I was wrong."
She stops.
I take a breath and continue.
"I was wrong. I told myself I was protecting you, but I was protecting myself. I was afraid you would eventually realize that being with me came at a cost, and I would rather hurt you first than give you the chance to hurt me later. That was cowardice. I am sorry."
Bliss's grip tightens on the spoon.
"You can't just—"
"I love you," I say. "I have loved you since you yelled at your aunt for implying you needed a man to validate your existence.
I have loved you since you fell asleep on my chest during the thunderstorm.
I have loved you every single second since I walked into that hotel lobby and saw you standing there, terrified and brave and willing to hire a complete stranger just to survive your family.
I love you, and I will spend the rest of my life proving that I am capable of being the partner you deserve if you give me the chance. "
Bliss observes me, her mouth slightly open, the spoon hanging limply in her hand.
"I—"
"You do not have to answer now," I say quickly. "I understand I have damaged your trust. I am willing to work to repair it. I am willing to be patient. I am willing to—"
"Olog."
I stop.
She steps forward, sets the ice cream and spoon down on the narrow table by the door, and grabs the front of my suit jacket with both hands.
"Shut up," she says.
Then she pulls me down and kisses me.