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15
- I'm done -
I immediately rush to the bathroom and vomit once he's gone.
It's all liquid. Alcohol. My pride.
When I'm emptier than I've ever felt, I stand, and with a shaking hand, I rinse my mouth before moving back into the main area.
Part of me expected him to come back. To be here. To have waltzed back in the door, to tell me he doesn't mean it, he loves me, wants to make this work.
I'd tell him the same.
I didn't mean it, I love you, and I want to make this work.
But that's just another fantasy.
This is my reality.
My doing.
It's too quiet.
I'm too alone. More alone than ever, really, because he finally signed and will soon be free of me.
The papers just sit there, mocking me.
Despite my aching stomach and my pounding head from drinking too much liquor too quickly, I move to the minibar. The tequila is gone, but that's fine. Vodka will work for now. Vodka will numb this agonizing ache that consumes me.
I grab a tiny bottle and crack it open for courage. While holding my breath, I go look at the paper he just signed, ready for my heart to break further than it already has. But I need to see this. I need it to be real because if it's real, I'll be forced to move on and maybe this is what we need.
Instead of a signature, I see he wrote something else.
This isn't over
I blink.
This isn't over.
This
isn't
over.
I set the bottle down and grab the paper, shocked that his signature isn't there.
Overwhelming, relieved tears spill from my eyes.
The paper falls from my fingers.
He's calling my bluff.
He's been calling my bluff for the last hour. For the last fucking year.
It's up to me to fix this.
He's waiting, begging, hoping for me to fix this.
I rush through the room for my phone, but in my muddled mind, I can't seem to remember where I left it. After a couple of minutes of searching, I find it on the terrace, next to my camera.
I call him over and over.
My service is low.
Or maybe his phone is off because it keeps going to voicemail.
Without thinking, I move toward the door, desperate to go after him. I'm a mess, and everyone at ESPN will look at me like I'm crazy, but I'll wait there until I can talk to him. If he's not there, I'll sleep in my car if I have to.
I'm not exactly done being difficult, but I'm done being a liar—to myself and to him.
I'll tell him every ugly truth, every vulnerable thought, everything that plagued my mind over the last year and beyond.
If he asks me again, I'll tell him I love him. That I never stopped. Even when I thought I hated him, I just hated myself. I hated what we were going through. But never him. I could never truly hate him.
When I open the door and step out into the hall, I gasp when I see him.
He's sitting on the carpet next to the door, waiting. Like he knew I'd snap the fuck out of it and come after him.
Because he has enough faith for the both of us, and I don't deserve him.
I truly don't.
But he's here. He didn't leave me. Not like I left him.
My tears fall faster and harder now.
I'm relieved but I'm also hurting more than ever because I'm allowing myself to feel every ounce of sadness I'd suppressed during our time apart.
"You're still here," I choke out, my knees buckling so I'm next to him on the floor because I'm too weak, too shattered to stand.
He stays serious. Angry with me. But under the surface, I sense something more in his expression. Something weak. Something on the verge of shattering.
"I'm still here," he says too quietly.
"You should have left," I sniffle because I know I'd deserve it.
"Yeah, well, I can't. I know what it feels like to be abandoned, and I just… I can't do that to you," he murmurs. "I don't want to do that to you, Bell. Ever."
Even though I'm furiously wiping my cheeks, my tears still come. But maybe that's what he needs to see.
That I'm vulnerable.
That I do care.
That I'm dying.
That I'm still in love with him.
His face is pensive when he asks, "Can we both finally put aside our pride? Please?"
I don't know how he's able to sound harsh and soft at the same time, but he pulls it off. He's tender but firm. Strong but vulnerable. He's everything I need. The fact that I pushed him away for so long makes me sick all over again.
I nod, answering his question. That's all I can do.
I'm done being stubborn.
I'm done trying to punish us both.
I'm done running.
I'm done, I'm done, I'm done.
I'm ready.
"Yes," I manage to say.
He stands, and with a gentle touch, he helps me to my feet. He keeps me upright, a steady arm around my waist, his face close to mine as he looks at me.
With a fierce gaze, he sees through my mask. I know he does. He likely has the entire time, but he kept chip, chip, chipping away until I was someone he recognized.
His hand that's not curved around my hip cups my cheek.
"I'm going to ask you one more time—do you still love me, baby?" he asks, unwavering affection and determination present on his face and in his tone.
He's firm and clear.
No room for doubt.
"Yes," I admit, and just saying that one word makes me feel more whole than I have in a while. "I still love you."
He holds my watery gaze, and even if his expression doesn't change, I can sense the relief in his demeanor and in his eyes. Like whatever part of him that was weak and close to shattering minutes before is now slightly repaired.
"Good," he says softly. "Now we're getting somewhere."