Page 52 of Lucky Star

I remembered how when I’d finally told her I was in love with her—that I’d been in love with her for a very long time—how her eyes had shined with light and love when she’d said it back.

I examined the tortured look on her face as she’d promised me we could weather the nightmare my movie was fast becoming, how she’d explained with tears in her eyes that if we endured it in the short term, the rest of our lives could be exactly what we wanted them to be.

I recalled the vice grip on my heart when she’d promised me red-haired babies with my eyes and her dimples.

I thought back over the hopeful looks she’d tossed my way over dinner while I’d tuned her out, and I felt shame for having reduced her to someone who silently begged for scraps of my affection while I stubbornly withheld them.

I pictured her face as I’d seen it most recently, completely devoid of hope or confidence. Her spirit broken, her heart shattered.

I’d felt justified in my behavior, but now it seemed petty and insignificant in the face of everything else. All that mattered to me was that I’d done this to her—to us—and that I’d been wrong.

She was probably better off without me, but I couldn’t imagine my life without her.

I tried to recapture the feelings I’d had when I first thought about our future together. How wonderful it’d be to go home to Ohio where we’d be surrounded by a stable, loving family. How beautiful she’d look, round with my child, what a wonderful mother she’d make, and how blessed I’d be if I was fortunate enough to grow old alongside her.

A warm heat infused my heart as that organ seemed to snap in two and meld itself back together again—Sarah and I, two parts of my whole.

I held tight to that warmth and vowed to never let it fade.

She was my other half, and I needed her as much as I needed air to breathe.

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