I nodded.
“What do you think she wants more than anything in the world?”
“A second chance,” I said without hesitation.
“And what do you want?” She held up one hand. “Wait, let me rephrase. What do you want that you have control over getting?”
“To make her happy. If I can.”
“What would make her happy?”
I sighed. “She wants to be there for me. Take care of me.”
“Are you comfortable with that?”
“No. Fuck no.” Frowning, I rubbed the back of my neck. “But if that’s what it takes …”
“If it were me,” Beatriz said, touching her tattooed chest, “that’s what it would take. Knowing that you were willing to let me see you at your most vulnerable. Because with you, she’s at her most vulnerable too.”
“Yeah,” I said miserably, picturing her sobbing into her hands after I told her I was leaving. “You really think letting her see me all out of it and half-bald and stapled together is the way to go?”
“Yes.” She leaned forward, elbows on the table. “Because it says, This is the real me. Yes, I’m the big, strong tattooed hottie with the eyes and the hair and the chiseled jaw, the guy who makes everyone laugh and all the girls swoon and never shows a sign of weakness, but I’m something else with you. I let you see all of me, because I love you.”
“Damn.” I blinked. “That’s pretty good.”
“Thank you. Now go make it happen. You’re one of the lucky ones, Dallas. You found it. Don’t let it pass you by.” She reached for my hand and squeezed, her eyes misting over. “Then get better, and bring that girl back here so I can meet the one woman amazing enough to steal your heart.”
I took a breath. “I’ll try.”
I texted her that night.
Maren, can we talk?
No answer.
I don’t blame you for ignoring me. But if you have it in your heart to give me a few minutes, I’d really love to talk to you. Call me when you can.
I waited and waited and waited. Nothing.
It was late in Detroit, after midnight, so she was probably already asleep. Was she teaching an early morning class tomorrow? If she was, she’d be up within a few hours. I set my phone down, got ready for bed, and checked my phone once more. Nothing.
I plugged it in to charge and got in bed, but slept only fitfully throughout the night. Every so often, I checked to see if she’d written me back, but was disappointed every time.
By the following morning, I had to consider the possibility that she’d seen my messages and had decided against replying. After I finished packing and was ready to leave, I decided to try calling her. I got her voicemail. The sound of her voice on the outgoing message made my pulse quicken.
“Maren, it’s me. You’ve probably seen my messages by now. You haven’t called, which means you’re either too upset with me to talk or you need more time to think about it. I get that. I’ll be on a plane to Boston most of today, but you could reach me in the next couple hours or later tonight. I’ll be on your time zone by then.” I paused. “I don’t know if Finn told you or not, but I decided to have the surgery. It will be on Friday. I’d really like to talk to you before then, if possible. I … hope you’re well. I miss you.” Then I hung up before I started breaking down.
Two hours later, I was checked in and waiting to board the plane, and I still hadn’t heard from Maren. Frowning at my phone, I heard my zone get called, but I ignored it, wanting to stay at the gate as long as possible just in case she called. Finally, I couldn’t delay boarding any longer, and I was forced to get on the plane without a word from her, not even an acknowledgment that she’d gotten my texts. I reluctantly switched my phone to airplane mode and dropped it into the carry-on bag at my feet.
What was I going to do if she didn’t call? Keep trying? Leave her a longer voicemail telling her the truth about why I’d broken things off? It wasn’t the kind of thing I wanted to do over voicemail, but she might not leave me a choice. Or would the right thing to do be to leave her alone? If her silence continued, didn’t that mean she didn’t want to hear anything from me? At this point, she was probably thinking, Fuck him and his apologies. I don’t need them. How could I get her to listen?
I tipped my head back and closed my eyes. This hole I’d dug for myself was deep, maybe too deep to climb out of.
But I wouldn’t give up.
Twenty
Dallas
I arrived in Boston and spent the evening with Finn and his family. Seeing the kids cheered me up a little, but later, when it was just the two of us, Finn asked me what was wrong. “You seem upset,” he said, his expression concerned. “Are you nervous?”
“Yes, but it’s not that.” We were still at the dinner table, but Bree had taken the kids up for their baths. Finn said that he would take care of the dishes.
“What is it?” He stacked a few plates.
“I reached out to Maren and asked her to call me, but there’s just silence on her end.”
“Ah.” He piled forks and knives on top of the stack. “I’m sorry.”
I shrugged. “I get it. She’s hurt. Why should she call me? She thinks she’s heard everything I have to say.”
“But she hasn’t. She just doesn’t realize it.”
“I can’t force her to listen to me. I don’t know what else to do.”
Finn didn’t answer, and after a few minutes, he stood and started carrying dishes into the kitchen. I did the same. When everything from the table was in the sink, I took a seat at the island and watched him load the dishwasher. “Want help?”
“Nah. I got it.”
I looked around the big, beautiful kitchen, with its gray-painted cabinetry, black stone counters, and polished wood floor. It was clean but lived-in—kids’ artwork on the fridge, shoes piled over by the back door, the clutter of everyday life all around. “You’re really lucky,” I said.
“Damn right I am.” He looked back at me. “But it’s not just luck.”
“What can I do, Finn? She won’t talk to me.”
“Maybe email her? She seems to check email often enough.”
“Did you tell her about the surgery?”
“Yes. And she replied the next day that she was glad to hear it and thanked me for letting her know. She said she wished us all the best.”
I swallowed hard. “Okay. I’ll email her. Can you forward me her email address?”
“Of course.”
Later that night, I lay in bed with my laptop trying to find the perfect words to say, the words that would undo all the damage I’d done and bring her back to me.
It wasn’t easy. I wrote, deleted. Wrote, deleted. Wrote, deleted. I’d never been a confident writer, and the pressure in this situation was almost unbearable. Finally, after three hours and a hundred different drafts, I gave up on perfect and just wrote from the heart.
Dear Maren,
An email is probably the worst way to say everything I want to say to you, but it’s the way I’m stuck with because I’m stubborn as fuck and waited too long to have the chance to do it in person. I haven’t been able to reach you by phone, not that I blame you for not wanting to speak to me. I’ve put you through too much already, and part of me thinks I should leave you alone even now. But I need to tell you the truth about my feelings for you, and this might be my last chance to do it.
Everything I told you the night we went to the baseball game is true.
Everything.
I never stopped loving you. I fell in love with you all over again the weekend we spent together, and I love you still. I said it was a lie only to make you hate me, so that leaving wouldn’t hurt so much.
Of course, it hurt anyway. More than I can say.
When I made the decision to come see you, it was because leaving you the first time has always been my biggest regret, and after getting the news about the tumor in my brain, you were all I could think about. I had to make things right with you. I never intended to fall for you again.
But being with you was like coming home to a place where I was more loved, more alive, more me than anywhere I’ve ever been. I should have told you about the tumor right away, but I couldn’t bring myself to ruin those perfect, happy hours we had—and I knew they were numbered. My future was so uncertain, and I didn’t want to drag you into it. I didn’t want you to feel burdened by your feelings for me. I didn’t want your pity. In my head, the only way to spare you from having to see me at my worst was to hide the truth from you.
“What do you think she wants more than anything in the world?”
“A second chance,” I said without hesitation.
“And what do you want?” She held up one hand. “Wait, let me rephrase. What do you want that you have control over getting?”
“To make her happy. If I can.”
“What would make her happy?”
I sighed. “She wants to be there for me. Take care of me.”
“Are you comfortable with that?”
“No. Fuck no.” Frowning, I rubbed the back of my neck. “But if that’s what it takes …”
“If it were me,” Beatriz said, touching her tattooed chest, “that’s what it would take. Knowing that you were willing to let me see you at your most vulnerable. Because with you, she’s at her most vulnerable too.”
“Yeah,” I said miserably, picturing her sobbing into her hands after I told her I was leaving. “You really think letting her see me all out of it and half-bald and stapled together is the way to go?”
“Yes.” She leaned forward, elbows on the table. “Because it says, This is the real me. Yes, I’m the big, strong tattooed hottie with the eyes and the hair and the chiseled jaw, the guy who makes everyone laugh and all the girls swoon and never shows a sign of weakness, but I’m something else with you. I let you see all of me, because I love you.”
“Damn.” I blinked. “That’s pretty good.”
“Thank you. Now go make it happen. You’re one of the lucky ones, Dallas. You found it. Don’t let it pass you by.” She reached for my hand and squeezed, her eyes misting over. “Then get better, and bring that girl back here so I can meet the one woman amazing enough to steal your heart.”
I took a breath. “I’ll try.”
I texted her that night.
Maren, can we talk?
No answer.
I don’t blame you for ignoring me. But if you have it in your heart to give me a few minutes, I’d really love to talk to you. Call me when you can.
I waited and waited and waited. Nothing.
It was late in Detroit, after midnight, so she was probably already asleep. Was she teaching an early morning class tomorrow? If she was, she’d be up within a few hours. I set my phone down, got ready for bed, and checked my phone once more. Nothing.
I plugged it in to charge and got in bed, but slept only fitfully throughout the night. Every so often, I checked to see if she’d written me back, but was disappointed every time.
By the following morning, I had to consider the possibility that she’d seen my messages and had decided against replying. After I finished packing and was ready to leave, I decided to try calling her. I got her voicemail. The sound of her voice on the outgoing message made my pulse quicken.
“Maren, it’s me. You’ve probably seen my messages by now. You haven’t called, which means you’re either too upset with me to talk or you need more time to think about it. I get that. I’ll be on a plane to Boston most of today, but you could reach me in the next couple hours or later tonight. I’ll be on your time zone by then.” I paused. “I don’t know if Finn told you or not, but I decided to have the surgery. It will be on Friday. I’d really like to talk to you before then, if possible. I … hope you’re well. I miss you.” Then I hung up before I started breaking down.
Two hours later, I was checked in and waiting to board the plane, and I still hadn’t heard from Maren. Frowning at my phone, I heard my zone get called, but I ignored it, wanting to stay at the gate as long as possible just in case she called. Finally, I couldn’t delay boarding any longer, and I was forced to get on the plane without a word from her, not even an acknowledgment that she’d gotten my texts. I reluctantly switched my phone to airplane mode and dropped it into the carry-on bag at my feet.
What was I going to do if she didn’t call? Keep trying? Leave her a longer voicemail telling her the truth about why I’d broken things off? It wasn’t the kind of thing I wanted to do over voicemail, but she might not leave me a choice. Or would the right thing to do be to leave her alone? If her silence continued, didn’t that mean she didn’t want to hear anything from me? At this point, she was probably thinking, Fuck him and his apologies. I don’t need them. How could I get her to listen?
I tipped my head back and closed my eyes. This hole I’d dug for myself was deep, maybe too deep to climb out of.
But I wouldn’t give up.
Twenty
Dallas
I arrived in Boston and spent the evening with Finn and his family. Seeing the kids cheered me up a little, but later, when it was just the two of us, Finn asked me what was wrong. “You seem upset,” he said, his expression concerned. “Are you nervous?”
“Yes, but it’s not that.” We were still at the dinner table, but Bree had taken the kids up for their baths. Finn said that he would take care of the dishes.
“What is it?” He stacked a few plates.
“I reached out to Maren and asked her to call me, but there’s just silence on her end.”
“Ah.” He piled forks and knives on top of the stack. “I’m sorry.”
I shrugged. “I get it. She’s hurt. Why should she call me? She thinks she’s heard everything I have to say.”
“But she hasn’t. She just doesn’t realize it.”
“I can’t force her to listen to me. I don’t know what else to do.”
Finn didn’t answer, and after a few minutes, he stood and started carrying dishes into the kitchen. I did the same. When everything from the table was in the sink, I took a seat at the island and watched him load the dishwasher. “Want help?”
“Nah. I got it.”
I looked around the big, beautiful kitchen, with its gray-painted cabinetry, black stone counters, and polished wood floor. It was clean but lived-in—kids’ artwork on the fridge, shoes piled over by the back door, the clutter of everyday life all around. “You’re really lucky,” I said.
“Damn right I am.” He looked back at me. “But it’s not just luck.”
“What can I do, Finn? She won’t talk to me.”
“Maybe email her? She seems to check email often enough.”
“Did you tell her about the surgery?”
“Yes. And she replied the next day that she was glad to hear it and thanked me for letting her know. She said she wished us all the best.”
I swallowed hard. “Okay. I’ll email her. Can you forward me her email address?”
“Of course.”
Later that night, I lay in bed with my laptop trying to find the perfect words to say, the words that would undo all the damage I’d done and bring her back to me.
It wasn’t easy. I wrote, deleted. Wrote, deleted. Wrote, deleted. I’d never been a confident writer, and the pressure in this situation was almost unbearable. Finally, after three hours and a hundred different drafts, I gave up on perfect and just wrote from the heart.
Dear Maren,
An email is probably the worst way to say everything I want to say to you, but it’s the way I’m stuck with because I’m stubborn as fuck and waited too long to have the chance to do it in person. I haven’t been able to reach you by phone, not that I blame you for not wanting to speak to me. I’ve put you through too much already, and part of me thinks I should leave you alone even now. But I need to tell you the truth about my feelings for you, and this might be my last chance to do it.
Everything I told you the night we went to the baseball game is true.
Everything.
I never stopped loving you. I fell in love with you all over again the weekend we spent together, and I love you still. I said it was a lie only to make you hate me, so that leaving wouldn’t hurt so much.
Of course, it hurt anyway. More than I can say.
When I made the decision to come see you, it was because leaving you the first time has always been my biggest regret, and after getting the news about the tumor in my brain, you were all I could think about. I had to make things right with you. I never intended to fall for you again.
But being with you was like coming home to a place where I was more loved, more alive, more me than anywhere I’ve ever been. I should have told you about the tumor right away, but I couldn’t bring myself to ruin those perfect, happy hours we had—and I knew they were numbered. My future was so uncertain, and I didn’t want to drag you into it. I didn’t want you to feel burdened by your feelings for me. I didn’t want your pity. In my head, the only way to spare you from having to see me at my worst was to hide the truth from you.
