Page 68 of I Choose You

“I have a life in Maine.”

“So? I have a life in Maine, too. If I can pick it up and move, so can you.”

She shakes her head, and sweat soaks the pits of my shirt. “It’s not that simple.”

Jesus.

I can’t believe this is fucking happening. The muscles in my forearms jump from applying pressure on my neck. “It is that simple.”

“You’re moving because you got promoted, Mason!” Her words come out exasperated and loud. “Look at this place! The company you work for is paying for all of this. You have stability. A job. A place to live.”

Doesn’t she realize that my stability is her stability? I would write it across the damn sky if it helped her understand; if it stopped her from ending us before having the chance to truly get started.

“I’ll take care of the both of us until you’re able to find something solid.” My new salary is more than enough.

“You’re not paying my way, Mase.”

“I’m offering.” My hand inches into my hair and runs over it, from the back to the front, then back again. “I want to be with you. I want us together. Jesus Christ, this past week was the best of my life. Me and you, we are made to be together. You have to see that. Don’t you feel it? The love between us?” A sharp pain twinges in my neck, moving to my shoulders and cascading down my back, the same way it used to when we were in college and finals were a week away.

“I have a solid job in Quaint, and my friends are there.” Sadness overtakes her face, her brows shaping into curves. She can’t be enjoying this—breaking me into fucking pieces. Mackenzie doesn’t intentionally hurt people. She may be doing it right now, but it’s in an effort to preserve her own heart. I know this. It doesn’t lessen the ache thrumming through my body any less, but I get it.

I also fucking hate it.

When I asked her to come to Austin with me this weekend, I didn’t imagine it taking a turn for the worse. If I knew, I wouldn’t have asked. I would have dealt with a weekend away from her if it meant I could return home to her.

“We can always go back and visit. I’ll make sure we can take time off. We’ll fly back every month.” I have no fucking clue if that’s possible, but for her, I’ll make sure.

“You’re going to have co-workers and companies relying on you. Responsibilities you can’t up and leave whenever you want!”

“I’ll make it work,” I promise, inching closer. God, I want to wrap her in my arms and tell her there’s nothing to worry about. If I could pump the love I have for her into her body, she would understand where I’m coming from. She would see how much I need this—how much I need her.

Her hands smooth over the back of the leather couch. Fuck, I hate leather. It’s stiff and uncomfortable, and the only issue with this apartment—aside from Mackenzie ripping my heart out. The second I can get rid of it, it’s gone. It’s only going to spark this memory every damn time I see it. And, fuck, I don’t want to relive these moments whenever I walk through my apartment.

Silent tears glide down her face, a handful on each cheek, and I want to reach out and dry them, but with the distance between us, I know she won’t let me.

I fucking hate it.

Despise how she looks away.

It might be horrible of me to say, but I want to see those hazel eyes of hers. I want to see how much this is breaking her. Want to know if her heart is stuck under the weight of a train like mine.

“This was inevitable. We experienced our fun, but it’s not meant to last forever,” she utters.

Not meant to last forever?

Fuck that.

A mocking laugh leaves me, and then I huff out a scoff. “That’s what you’re choosing to believe?” I place my palms on my hips, even though it seems like I need to lift the boulders off my shoulders before they defeat me. “I can’t, and I won’t. Mackenzie…that isn’t our truth, and you know it.”

She glances toward the kitchen, though I don’t think she sees a damn thing because her eyes are back on me in a flash. “You mean to tell me you’re willing to go through the struggles of a long-distance relationship with me?”

I answer straight away because I know what I want. It seems like she’s the one who doesn’t. “Yes. One thousand percent.”

She shakes her head for what seems like the thousandth time since we started this conversation. Her face falls, moving down to the black, smooth material of the one piece of furniture I want to throw out the damn window.

Then it hits me. The pain knocks me back like a Mack truck barreling into me, so sudden and unexpected that it makes me step back one, two, three times. It’s like a sledgehammer comes down on my chest, and it cracks every one of my ribs, making it difficult to breathe fully.

“It doesn’t matter if I’m willing to go the distance and make an effort,” I acknowledge. “It’s you.” Both of my hands move to comb through my hair and tug at the ends. “You’re the one who isn’t willing. The one who doesn’t want this—us—me.”

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