Elena #2
He asked permission before touching me. He listened when I said no, and he listened when I said yes. Even when the answer hurt him.
I understood all of that before I came here. I treated it like evidence I couldn’t use because accepting it would require me to risk more than a contract could protect.
The wind whips my hair across my face. I pull it back and turn toward the cabin.
I’m not ready to keep climbing.
On Monday morning, I return.
The same trail is waiting for me, and the incline is just as punishing. My legs burn as I climb, but I keep going until the trees thin and the ridge opens in front of me.
Mountains stretch across the horizon in layers of dark green, gray rock, and snow.
I lower myself onto a flat section of rock and take out my water.
Control helped me rebuild my life. It gave me something to rely on when my judgment was ruined, and every plan I’d made with Daniel had collapsed. I don’t regret the career, the condo, or the independence I fought to earn.
I do regret letting control become another dependency.
I trust schedules, contracts, and detailed plans to keep pain away.
Whenever one stops working, I replace it: a binder for motherhood, a contract for Dominic, separate households so I could have him in my life without admitting I wanted to share one, and now a cabin in Colorado because pregnancy, love, and Daniel arrived on the same day.
I keep changing the plan, but I’m still asking it to guarantee that no one can hurt me.
No plan can do that.
My phone feels heavy in my pocket.
I take it out and open a blank note. I’m done analyzing. It’s time to write down what I know.
Pregnant.
I love Dominic.
He is not Daniel.
I chose wrong.
My thumb hovers above the screen.
I can choose differently.
I save the note.
On the walk back to the cabin, my phone rings.
Dominic’s name fills the screen.
For one wild second, the old habit of avoidance screams at me to let it go to voicemail.
I can choose differently. I swipe to answer.
By Monday afternoon, the Telluride obstetrics intake form has been open on my laptop for twenty-three minutes.
I’ve completed three fields.
Name.
Date of birth.
Permanent address.
Chicago.
I typed that one without hesitation.
The next section asks about prior pregnancies, fertility treatment, medications, and the date of my last menstrual period. I can answer every question. I’ve tracked enough dates to complete the entire page from memory.
I keep returning to the emergency contact section.
Name.
Relationship to patient.
Phone number.
Maya would answer. Olivia would too. Cliff would get on the first plane available and be furious with me the entire way.
The person I want is Dominic.
He has been the person I wanted since the second line appeared on the pregnancy test, stark and blue and undeniable. My first thought was his name. My hand was already reaching for my phone before fear caught up.
The intake form blurs as a memory replaces it.
Dominic beside me in the fertility specialist’s office, a notebook open across his knee.
What should we expect?
Is there anything we should change?
When should we come back?
He said we without hesitating. He took notes, asked questions I forgot, and treated every appointment as part of his life because he intended to be there.
He wanted a child, but he also wanted the life around it. The appointments, the shared home, the ordinary mornings, and the nights no one sleeps.
I offered him two houses and a schedule. A spreadsheet for a life he wanted to share.
God.
I close the intake form.
A warning asks whether I’m sure I want to leave without saving. I click yes.
I’m not completing it later. I won’t need an obstetrician here.
I’m going home.
I’m still afraid Dominic may hear everything I need to say and decide I waited too long. Loving me may have become too painful, and the baby doesn’t obligate him to forgive me.
If that’s his answer, I’ll survive it. Making choices for both of us so I would never have to hear his answer is what brought me here.
I open a flight search and enter Chicago as my destination.
My phone sits beside the laptop. Dominic called this morning to tell me he knows about Daniel. He withdrew Rowe Holdings from the acquisition before speaking to me. When I argued about the financials, he told me the decision would stand even if I resigned or ended our personal relationship.
That matters. It doesn’t create a debt.
He ended the acquisition because Daniel’s nondisclosure and transition role made it the right decision for Rowe Holdings. I can be relieved without turning his choice into proof that I owe him forgiveness, a relationship, or a flight home.
Then he asked if he could come.
He didn’t demand my address. He didn’t get it from Maya or access the information attached to my leave. He asked, giving me the choice he always gives me.
And for once, I didn’t run from it. I said yes.
He sent his flight details; I know he’s on his way, but a storm front may slow the drive from Montrose. I don’t know when his car will reach the cabin.
I open the note from the trail and add what I need to tell him.
Daniel Weller is the man who threatened me.
I knew during the call and didn’t tell you.
I found out I was pregnant Thursday morning.
I tried to tell you three times, then I ran.
I was more afraid of needing you than I was willing to trust what you’ve shown me.
I love you.
I want a real life with you, if you still want one with me.
A hot pressure builds behind my eyes as I read the list.
I don’t edit it. I don’t add conditions or explanations designed to protect me if he rejects the last two lines.
The earliest flight home leaves tomorrow morning. I select it and reach for my wallet.
Three firm knocks strike the cabin door, the sound sharp and final in the quiet room.
My heart jumps into my throat. It’s too soon. I freeze.
My phone shows no new message.
The knock comes again.
I stand so quickly that my chair scrapes across the floor. The flight information remains open on my laptop as I cross the living room.
Cold light cuts through the narrow window beside the door.
Dominic stands on the porch.
His dark coat is open over the white dress shirt he wore to work this morning. His hair is disordered, and exhaustion shadows his face. He looks completely out of place against the mountains behind him.
And so familiar that relief nearly buckles my knees.
I grip the edge of the curtain, my knuckles white.
He came. The two words are both a prayer and a panic.
I should feel cornered. I created distance, and he crossed it.
Except I gave him the address. I told him he could come. More importantly, I decided to return before he reached this cabin.
My laptop is open to a flight home. The Telluride intake form is closed. Every truth I planned to take back to Chicago is waiting in that note.
Dominic’s arrival hasn’t made the choice for me. He’s here to meet the one I already made.
“Fuck,” I whisper.
His head turns slightly toward the window.
I unlock the deadbolt and place my hand on the knob. Fear moves through me, sharp and familiar, but I don’t mistake it for an instruction this time.
I open the door.
Cold mountain air rushes inside.
Dominic looks at me, and for the first time, I see past the composure he wears like armor. The tight line of his jaw, the raw exhaustion in his eyes, the way his chest rises on a sharp, unsteady breath—it’s all there. The control is gone.
“Elena.”
My name comes out as a frayed edge, rough with a relief so profound it looks like pain.
I tighten my hand around the phone holding everything I’m ready to tell him.
Then I open the door wider.