Page 41 of Unwanted

“It’s for the best,” he says. “For me. For you. For the greater good. But make no mistake,” he adds. “It is not what I want.”

I want to argue that he doesn’t know what’s best for me, but I know I have to respect that he knows what’s best for him.

I’d be a fool not to notice how hard he’s worked on getting himself to this point. To have boundaries and to be able to communicate healthily.

I need to respect that, no matter what my selfish needs are. Because this is what I wanted for him, isn’t it?

To love and care about himself and life enough to want to actually live it. To know that he is strong enough to protect his sobriety.

To see that his sobriety was even a priority warmed me up from the inside out. Even if, in this moment, it was at my expense, I could empathize.

Resigned, I blow out a tired breath. “Tell me where we go from here.”

His fingers release my chin and he places his palm on my cheek, his thumb moving back and forth, grazing my cheekbone. “Tell me what you’ve been doing for the past four years.”

I narrow my eyes at him. “I thought you said—”

He shakes his head. “I don’t want to talk about you leaving or why you left. Just give me a glimpse,” he says softly. “Let me know it was worth it.”

When I look at him now and compare him to the broken man I left behind, I want to say it was worth it. But when I think of the years we’ve spent apart and the visceral pain I caused us both when I left, I can’t help but wonder, if I wasn’t such a coward and stayed, could he have gotten to this point in his life with me by his side?

I cover his hand with mine and move it away from my face. I bring his knuckles to my lips and kiss each one while my gaze remains focused solely on him.

“I don’t know, Arlo. You tell me, was it worth it?”

We stand there, breaths matching, eyes not blinking, both of us refusing to answer the question. Because admitting that both our lives flourished when we were apart is a hard pill to swallow.

Arlo pulls his hand out of my grasp, moves away from me, and clears his throat, breaking the trance between us.

“Can I drive you home?“ he asks.

Surprised by his offer, I take a leaf out of his book and decline, knowing we need to put some distance between us.

“I’m okay,” I answer. “I think I’m just going to walk home.”

“You can’t walk home,” he counters. He looks down at his watch. “It’s late and dangerous.”

“Worried about me?” I quip, smirking half-heartedly.

“Frankie,” he says sternly. “Please.”

“I need the space.”

“I’ll give it to you. Right after I drop you off.”

“So, you can ask for things you need, but I can’t?”

“Frankie,” he breathes out exasperatedly. “It’s not even remotely the same and you know it.”

I was being petulant, but the thought of being in the car with him only to part with an awkward goodbye was the icing on the proverbial cake that I did not need.

“Just let me drive you,” he repeats. “Please.”

Wordlessly, I push off the wall and make my way toward the exit. I hear his footsteps behind me, and even when we’re both in the elevator I don’t look up at him.

There isn’t anything left to be said.

Knowing where he parked the car, I make my way to the passenger side and wait for him to unlock the door.

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