Chapter 2 #2
I stood up from the table, murmuring to our server that I was going to find the ladies’ room, and made my way toward the back of the restaurant. Maybe Sam had stepped outside for better cell reception. Maybe he was having trouble with whoever he was trying to coordinate with.
The back door opened onto Rosewood Inn’s private garden, a small courtyard with wrought-iron tables and fairy lights strung between the trees.
During the day, it was used for outdoor dining.
At night, it provided a quiet space away from the main restaurant’s bustle.
It was the perfect place for a proposal.
A flutter of excitement mixed with my concern. Was this it? Had Sam been waiting out here for me, wondering what was taking me so long to check on him? Maybe those texts had been from whoever was helping him coordinate everything, and he’d rushed out here to make sure it was all ready.
Sam stood with his back to me near the far corner of the garden, his phone pressed to his ear, his free hand running through his hair in the gesture I knew meant he was overwhelmed.
“I can’t do it, Jack.” His voice carried across the quiet space, filled with an anguish I’d never heard before. “I can’t marry her.”
The world stopped.
I can’t marry her.
The words stole the breath from my lungs. I gripped the door frame to keep from falling, my legs suddenly unable to support my weight.
“I know I said I was ready,” Sam continued, his voice breaking. “I had it all planned out. But I can’t do this.”
Why not? I wanted to scream. Why not, Sam?
But I couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t do anything but stand there and listen to the man I loved explain to his best friend why he couldn’t bear the thought of marrying me.
“She doesn’t deserve this,” Sam said. “She deserves someone who can give her everything, who doesn’t come with… complications.”
Complications. What complications? We’d been together for two years, living together for eight months. What complications could he possibly have that I didn’t already know about?
“I have to go,” Sam said suddenly. “She’s probably wondering where I am. I need to figure out how to… God, Jack, how do I get through the rest of this dinner?”
I stumbled back through the restaurant, barely making it to our table before my knees gave out. The green dress that had felt so perfect two hours ago now felt like a costume, like I was playing a role in a story that had already ended without my knowledge.
I can’t marry her.
The words echoed in my head as I stared at our untouched dinner plates, at the wine glasses that I knew had been meant to toast our engagement, at the candles on nearby tables that seemed to mock my stupid, naive hopes.
I can’t do it.
What had changed? Everything had been perfect just an hour ago. The breakfast, the flowers, the way he’d looked at me and called me “everything.” What could possibly have happened in the space of two text messages to make him say he couldn’t marry me?
This wasn’t about proposal nerves. This was something else entirely. Something that had just happened tonight.
By the time I’d composed myself enough to sit up straight, Sam had returned to the table.
“Sorry about that.” Sam slid back into the booth, his face pale but composed. “Work emergency.”
I stared at him. “Everything okay?” I managed to ask, though my voice sounded hollow even to my own ears.
“Yeah. Fine. Just… bar stuff.” He picked up his fork and began cutting his salmon, but I could see his hands trembling slightly. “How’s your dinner?”
How’s my dinner? I wanted to laugh, or scream, or throw my wine glass against the wall. Instead, I picked up my own fork and moved food around on my plate, pretending to eat while my entire world crumbled around me.
“It’s fine,” I said, because what else could I say? Actually, Sam, I just heard you tell Jack that you can’t marry me, and I’d like to know why.
The rest of the meal passed in a blur of forced conversation and mechanical movements.
Sam asked about my day at the clinic. I told him about seeing the usual cats and dogs.
He mentioned ordering a new beer for the festival coming up.
I nodded and made appropriate responses while internally screaming.
Other couples around us laughed and held hands and celebrated whatever milestones had brought them out tonight. I watched them with the detached fascination of an outsider, wondering if any of them had ever had their entire future ripped away as they ate.
When the server asked about dessert – the chocolate cake Sam had specifically mentioned when we were first seated – I shook my head and asked for the check instead.
“Not feeling well,” I murmured to Sam by way of explanation, though I couldn’t quite meet his eyes in case he would see the pain and anger in them.
Happy birthday to me.
The drive home was silent except for the radio playing softly in the background. I stared out the passenger window at the familiar streets of Willowbrook, the town that had become home, the place where I’d built a life with a man who apparently couldn’t stand the thought of marrying me.
When we pulled into our driveway, Sam finally spoke.
“Chloe, about tonight—”
“It’s fine,” I said quickly, because I couldn’t bear to hear whatever explanation he was about to offer.
“I wanted it to be special for you,” he continued as if I hadn’t spoken.
Special. Like the engagement that was never going to happen. Like the future that existed only in my imagination.
“It was special,” I lied. “Dinner at Rosewood is always special.”
We sat in the truck for a moment longer, the engine ticking as it cooled, both of us apparently unwilling to go inside and face whatever came next.
“I love you,” Sam said suddenly, desperately, like he was trying to convince both of us.
I turned to look at him and saw something in his expression that I’d never seen before. Grief, maybe. Or regret. The face of a man who’d just broken something precious and wasn’t sure how to put it back together.
“I love you too,” I said, because it was true even though he’d just shattered my heart without even realizing it.
Inside the house, I went straight upstairs, citing my headache. It wasn’t entirely a lie – my head was pounding from holding back tears. Sam didn’t follow me up right away, and I was grateful. Any other birthday night would have ended differently. But not this one.
I changed into my pajamas and climbed into bed, turning toward the wall.
When Sam finally came upstairs an hour later, moving quietly through our bedroom in the dark, I kept my breathing steady and even, pretending to be asleep.
I felt him pause beside the bed, heard him sigh softly.
Then he carefully slid under the covers.
His arm reached across the space and settled around my waist the way it always did, like his body couldn’t help seeking mine. I felt his breathing gradually even out as he fell asleep, but I lay awake staring at the dark ceiling, replaying his words over and over again.
As the clock on my nightstand ticked toward midnight, officially ending my birthday, I realized that the worst part wasn’t the broken dreams or the shattered expectations.
The worst part was that Sam clearly thought I was too fragile, too naive, or too unimportant to be included in whatever crisis had made him change his mind about marrying me.
He’d made the decision for both of us.
And I didn’t even know why.