Page 110 of Worth the Fall

I'm left standing in the kitchen, still clutching my revelation like a hot potato no one's ready to catch. The words bubble up in my throat, threatening to spill out, but I swallow them down.

Not like this. Not in the midst of the mad dash out the door. Miguel deserves better. We both do.

With a sigh, I start clearing the table, resigned to trying again another day.

Attempt number two involves a romantic dinner. I spend hours cooking, determined to create the perfect atmosphere for the big reveal. I set the table with my best dishes—a wedding gift from my mom that I've been too afraid to use because they're so delicate—and light candles for ambiance. The soft flickers of the flames cast a warm glow over the room, and for a moment, I let myself believe that everything will be okay.

I've made chicken piccata, a recipe I've been perfecting for weeks. The buttery, lemony scent fills the air, and I'm pretty proud of myself for pulling it off without burning anything or setting off the smoke alarm.

Miguel arrives right on time, looking devastatingly handsome in a navy sweater that hugs his broad chest and dark jeans that should probably be illegal. He hands me a bottle of wine with a grin, his lips brushing my temple as he steps inside.

"This looks amazing, Mia," he says, gesturing to the table. "You've outdone yourself."

"Thanks," I manage, my stomach doing nervous somersaults. This time, I'll tell him. For sure. No distractions, no interruptions.

We sit down, and for a few minutes, everything is perfect. We toast with the wine…or at least he does while I sneak cranberry juice into my glass, the clinking of our glasses echoing in the quiet room. We laugh about Felicity's latest art project—a "sculpture" made entirely of glitter and googly eyes that she insists is a self-portrait.

But with each passing moment, the knot in my stomach grows tighter. The chicken tastes like sawdust in my mouth, and I can barely focus on the conversation. All I can think about are the words sitting heavily on my tongue, waiting to be spoken.

"Mia," Miguel says, his brow furrowing as he swallows a bite. "Is this… supposed to taste like this?"

"No. Absolutely not." The words barely leave my mouth before my stomach revolts completely, twisting into a violent knot. Oh God. Oh no.

"Maybe we should…" Miguel starts, his concern evident. But I'm already halfway to the bathroom, my heels clattering against the tile as I make a beeline for the toilet.

The romantic atmosphere evaporates in an instant, replaced by the delightful sounds of me retching up everything I've eaten in the past twenty-four hours. So much for the perfect moment.

When I finally emerge, pale and shaky, Miguel is there with a glass of water and a damp washcloth. He presses the cool fabric to my forehead, his eyes filled with worry.

"Are you sure you're okay?" he asks softly, brushing my hair back from my face.

"I'm fine," I lie, taking a small sip of water. "Just a stomach bug, I think."

He doesn't look convinced, but he doesn't push. Instead, he helps me to the couch and tucks a blanket around my shoulders, his touch gentle and soothing.

"Get some rest," he murmurs, pressing a kiss to my temple. "I'll clean up."

I want to protest, to insist that I'm fine, that I can still salvage this evening. But exhaustion is already pulling at me, and the thought of facing that chicken again makes my stomach turn.

"I'm sorry," I whisper, my eyes already fluttering shut.

"Don't be sorry, love. Just feel better."

His footsteps retreat to the kitchen, and I let myself drift, silently cursing the universe for its terrible timing.

Another perfect moment ruined. Another chance to tell him gone.

I'll try again tomorrow, I vow as I slip into a restless sleep. Tomorrow, for sure.

By the time attempt number three rolls around, I'm starting to think the universe is conspiring against me. Not in the fun, "let's throw a few challenges her way to help her grow" kind of way, but in the "let's see how much Mia can take before she completely loses it" kind of way.

It's as if every cosmic force has aligned to turn my life into a roller coaster of attempted reveals and hormonal chaos. I've imagined countless ways this conversation could go, each one more disastrous than the last, but this… this feels like a cruel joke.

I'm at the park with Miguel and Felicity, our highly anticipated pickleball rematch in full swing. The sun is shining,the birds are chirping, and I'm determined to win, if only to reclaim some semblance of control over my spiraling life.

Felicity sits on a nearby bench, her snack pack of gummy bears in one hand and a juice box in the other. She cheers loudly every time I hit the ball, her face lit up with the kind of unbridled joy only a child can muster.

"Go, Mia, go!" she shouts, waving her gummy bears in the air like pom-poms. "You've got this!"

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