Chapter 14 #3
I open my mouth to protest and realize I don’t actually have a coherent counterargument. Just a bunch of flailing feelings and a long history of choosing the exit over the escalation.
“I’m not built for the whole white picket fence, shared Netflix account, fight-over-who-takes-out-the-garbage thing,” I say finally. “You know that.”
“I do.” He smiles. “And I’m not suggesting you go out and buy a fence.
But love isn’t synonymous with domestic incarceration.
You can love someone and keep your passport in a state of readiness.
You can love someone and still be pansexual, still be non-monogamous.
You make that very clear upfront. You know how to do that.
The question is whether you’re willing to let yourself want this. ”
His words make me ache.
“What if wanting this means breaking him?” I whisper. “He’s only just started to bloom. I don’t want to be the storm that snaps the stems.”
Leo snorts. “OK, Shakespeare, calm the fuck down.”
I glare at him through fresh tears. “I’m serious.”
“So am I.” He shifts, turning to face me more fully.
“Tippi, that man just told his father to take a long hard look at himself and stop being a dick or lose his kids for good. He’s not as fragile as you think.
He’s had almost four decades of being told he’s wrong, too much, not enough, whatever.
The fact that he’s still capable of this level of vulnerability with you tells me he’s got more steel in him than he realizes. ”
I think of Jacob in the garden earlier, saying I can make decisions about what I’m prepared to risk. The way his hands shook but his voice didn’t.
“I’m scared,” I admit, very small.
“I know.” Leo’s hand slides down to squeeze mine.
“And that’s fair. Feelings are fucking terrifying.
But you don’t have to do this the way anyone else did.
You and Jacob can sit down and literally design the shape of what you want.
Terms and conditions, clauses, amendments.
Hell, write a contract. Stewart folk seem to be a fatal weakness for the Mills family anyway,” he jokes, “it’s practically genetic at this point. ”
“I hate how right you are,” I mutter.
He grins briefly, then sobers. “Look, I’m not pretending it’s simple.
You’ve built a life where you answer to yourself.
You guard that fiercely, with good reason.
But love doesn’t have to be a prison. It can be an extra passport.
A frequent flyer partner. Someone whose lap you sprawl across on long-haul flights. ”
The image hits too close to my dream, and my throat tightens again. “I don’t even know if he wants that,” I say. “A future. With me. Like that.”
Leo’s brows rise. “Tip. My sweet summer child. Have you asked?”
I make a strangled noise. “Leo, I ugly-cried on his nipples. I have never been less sexy in my life. The idea of sitting down and saying, ‘hey, so while I was leaking from my face on your chest I had some thoughts about our hypothetical future together, how do you feel about being my anchor in a life of organized chaos’? That’s insane. ”
He snickers. “You cried on his nipples?”
“I hate you.”
He sobers again, squeezing my hand. “Tippi, I’m going to say something that might piss you off a bit, OK?”
“What’s new,” I sigh.
“You give phenomenal advice to other people,” he says.
“About sex, boundaries, communication. You tell people to have the hard conversations, to be honest, to ask for what they want, to walk away from what doesn’t serve them but lean in to what does.
And you’re brilliant at it. But when it comes to your own heart, you’re still that kid who decided it was safer to leave first than risk being left. ”
The words land like little stones in my stomach.
“I watched you,” he continues softly. “After Dad died. After we moved. After every time some crush of yours treated you like a novelty and then moved on. You turned your grief and your hurt into passports and hotels and sex museums and an empire of your own making. Don’t get me wrong, I am so fucking proud of you.
But somewhere along the way you also decided that being unrooted was the same thing as being invulnerable. And honey, that’s bullshit.”
I bite my lip hard, staring at the pattern on the rug so I don’t have to look at him.
“And now some lanky British security nerd’s managed to slip past your defenses,” Leo says gently. “And you’re acting like that’s a catastrophe instead of a possibility.”
“It could be a catastrophe,” I mutter. “He could decide I’m too much. Or not enough. Or that he wants a wife who bakes him freaking casseroles instead of a girlfriend who writes thinkpieces about sex clubs.”
“He could,” Leo agrees. “And you could get hit by a bus tomorrow. Avoiding risk is boring. You know what isn’t boring?
Standing in front of that man and saying, ‘Here’s what I can offer.
Here’s what I can’t. Here’s what I want.
Do you want to build something within those parameters? ’ And then seeing what he says.”
I picture it. Sitting across from Jacob at his kitchen table, coffee steaming between us, laying it all out.
Admitting that the idea of not having him in my life hurts in a way I didn’t expect.
That I still need my freedom. That I still want other lovers, other adventures.
That I also want him in my corner, in my bed, on my phone at stupid hours.
My stomach flips.
“I don’t…know what a future with him would even look like,” I say helplessly. “In practical terms.”
Leo’s mouth curves. “Then that’s your homework. Think about that future, and make it happen. Or at least give it the chance to. Don’t shut it down before it’s even had a shot because you’re embarrassed about a few tears. On his nipples.”
I stare at him. “You make it sound so simple.”
“It’s not,” he says. “But simple and easy aren’t the same.
You’re the woman who figured out how to monetize orgasms and museums simultaneously.
You can figure out how to build a relationship that doesn’t make you feel trapped.
Especially with someone who’s already shown he’s willing to listen, adapt, and have hard conversations. ”
A laugh bubbles up, surprising and a little hysterical. “You really like him, don’t you?”
Leo grins. “He’s a good man. He loves my kids. He’s kind to my wife. He told George to shove it. And he looks at you like you hung the bloody moon. Of course I’m a fucking fan.”
Heat creeps up my neck again.
“I don’t even know what to say to him,” I confess. “‘Hi, sorry I sprinted out of your house after crying on you, turns out I might actually be in love with you, can we schedule a chat’?”
“Yes,” Leo says promptly. “Exactly that.” He sobers. “Tiplet, he was probably worried sick when you left. Give him the respect of not leaving him to stew. You owe him at least a conversation, one where you don’t underestimate him, and trust him to know what he wants, and what he can and can’t do.”
He’s right.
Of course he’s right.
I lean my head on his shoulder, exhausted. “I hate it when you’re this wise.”
“You love it,” he says. “Admit it.”
I sigh. “Fine. I’ll talk to him. After I’ve slept and my face doesn’t look like I lost a fight with a raccoon.”
“That’s my girl.” He kisses the top of my head. “For what it’s worth? Whatever you decide, whatever shape it takes, I’ve got your back. If he hurts you, I know where he lives. If you hurt him, I’ll probably yell at you and then help you apologize.”
“Balanced,” I say wryly.
“Always.”