Chapter 17 #2
Mel is already hurrying towards me when I walk through the door, a worried expression pinching her features. “Are you okay?” she blurts. “You’re not usually gone this long.”
Instead of rushing across the room to her, like I usually do, my footsteps drag like they’re moving through mud. “I’m fine,” I reply. “Just lost track of time while I was running.”
Once we’re an arms-length apart, Mel moves like she’s about to hug me. But I lean back and hold my hands up. “I’m really sweaty,” I tell her. “I don’t think you want to touch me.”
Her brow furrows. Then she takes a step back. “Oh. Okay.” She gives me a tight smile. “That makes sense.”
Then she turns and gestures to the kitchen island, just past the open-concept living room. On it is a loaf of bread, a paper towel-lined bowl with strawberries, and a mixing bowl and pan sitting beside them. “I was thinking I could make French toast for breakfast, if you’d like.”
My stomach churns unhappily at the mention of food. “Maybe. After I shower.”
Noticing the coffee maker still sitting on the counter, dark and empty, I head across the kitchen and grab the bag of coffee from the cabinet above it. “Didn’t you have coffee?”
Melissa leans on the island, watching me with an unreadable expression. “No. I was waiting for you.”
Guilt jabs at me. Of course she waited. Because we always have coffee together after I work out.
I just made her wait longer than usual. “Right,” I mutter, while filling the coffee filter with coffee grounds.
Then I take the small jar of cinnamon from beside the coffeemaker and sprinkle some over the grounds.
Once I have the coffee going, I turn back around. “It’ll be ready in just a minute.”
“If you don’t want French toast, that’s okay.” Melissa picks up the bowl of strawberries, takes it over to the fridge, and sets it inside. “It might be too heavy to eat after a long workout.”
“We can have French toast,” I reply. “I’m just really gross right now. With the weather getting hot again, and the extra long run…”
“It’s alright,” she says as she picks up the loaf of bread. “I think there are still some of those protein bars. Or I can scramble up some eggs.”
The guilt gets even heavier. More suffocating. “You don’t have to cook for me. I can cook something myself.”
Hurt flickers across Mel’s face. “I know I don’t have to. I just thought—” She stops. Sighs.
I want to say something to take the hurt look away. But my words get all tangled up.
Fix this, I tell myself. She didn’t do anything wrong. Apologize for being short with her. Just fix this.
And prolong the inevitable? When I know damn well how this will end?
Mel sighs again. Oscar gets up from his favorite napping spot beside the couch, walks over to her, and bumps her leg with his head. She reaches down to scratch between his ears, but she doesn’t look at him. Her gaze is still on me.
“Mel,” I start, feeling at a loss of what to say.
“Tyler,” she starts at the same time.
“You go,” I urge.
“No, you,” she retorts.
“You go,” I repeat more firmly.
She gives me a long look. Then she takes a deep breath and lets it out in a rush. “I’ve been thinking about the whole job thing.”
“The job thing?”
“Yes.” She bites her lip. “We were talking about it before everything… You know. So, I’ve been looking into options. With my history, it’ll be tougher. Even without the criminal charges, if an employer runs a background check—”
“They have no reason not to hire you,” I interrupt. “That shouldn’t matter.”
Mel smiles sadly. “We both know it does. But I can’t change what they’ll find. I’ll just need to look a little longer. Expand my search.”
My heart thuds hard. “Expand your search? To where?”
“Um.” Her gaze dips to the butcher block surface of the island. “I’m not sure. There’s New York, of course. Or South Carolina. When I was talking to my parents the other night, they brought it up.”
“Brought what up?”
There’s a long pause. “Moving closer to them,” Mel replies. “I’m not saying I want to. I just… I need to make money. Find a permanent place to live. I know I don’t want to go back to Northville…” She shrugs. “I have to figure out something.”
Ask her to stay, a voice in my head shouts. Not the scornful one, but one still clinging to the hope that everything with Melissa can work out.
I almost do it.
It’s on the tip of my tongue.
Then, as I move closer to Mel, I notice the fading bruise on the side of her forehead—the bruise she got when she hit her head on the car window while I was trying to get away from those assholes.
The bruise I put there.
My eyes travel from the bruise to the dark smudges beneath her eyes. Shadows from lack of sleep thanks to the resurgence of her nightmares.
Nightmares of the all-too-real nightmare I pulled her into.
And the question—will you stay?—dissolves.
“What do you think?” Mel asks. Her eyes widen as they meet mine. “Do you have any ideas?”
“A job isn’t a bad idea. I can help you with that.”
“Okay…” She plays with the twist-tie on the bread bag. “What do you think about me finding an apartment?”
I hate it, I want to say. You don’t need an apartment. You can stay here. Everyone loves you—my teammates, all the other women, you’d be safe here—
Until she wants to go somewhere on her own.
Until she’s reminded of the day I almost got her killed.
Until the day I put her in danger again.
As I stand in the kitchen, looking at Mel, a thought comes to me with absolute certainty.
I love her.
And sometimes loving someone means letting them go.
It means saying goodbye when it’s the best thing for them.
Before I think the words through, I hear myself saying, “Maybe being closer to your parents would be nice. You’d get to see them more often.”
No! howls the hopeful voice. No!
Melissa stares at me. Then she lifts her chin and slides off the stool. “Oscar.”
Oscar lifts his head to look at her.
“Let’s go for a walk,” she tells him.
“You’re going for a walk now?” I ask. Flicking a glance at the now-full carafe, I add, “What about coffee?”
She heads into the living room and takes his leash from the hook by the door. “I’m not really in the mood.” A beat, and then, “I’ll have some when I get back.”
I don’t want to let her leave. Not with things like this. Not with so many conflicted feelings inside me, so tangled I can’t make sense of them. “Breakfast?”
“I’ll have a protein bar,” Melissa replies. She clips Oscar’s leash to his collar, then turns back to look at me. “I’ll be back in a little while.”
It feels like a tremendous weight is pressing down on my chest. Part of me desperately wants to beg her to stay.
But.
As I look at Mel, I’m reminded of her terrified face again.
How damn scared she was in the car, not understanding what was happening or if we’d get out of it alive.
I’m reminded of her sobbing in my arms, apologizing for doing exactly what I asked.
I’m reminded of her trembling hand when I took the gun from it—a gun she never wanted to hold again.
None of that would have happened if not for me.
So I don’t ask her to stay. I just nod at her and say, “Make sure you have your phone. Just in case.”
She gives me another sad smile. “I have it.”
Then she turns and walks out the door.
And I’m left behind, staring after her, wondering how it all went so wrong.