Page 86 of Just a Distraction

She joins me at the table, sitting stiffly across from me. “I told you, I do want it. I don’t want what we have between us to end, but there’s no other alternative, Milo.” The tension here is thick and her eyes are already blazing.

“Sebastian’s good with me transferring to the Chapel Hill location.”

“That’s because Sebastian doesn’t know about the MFA at Greenleaf,” she says. “You can’t give up this once-in-a-lifetime chance.”

I know she’s right, and she knows I know it.

“I can see that you don’t want to give it up,” she urges, searching my expression. “It would be a mistake, and you know it.”

“I can’t lose you, Rose.”

“Please.” She closes her eyes, like she can’t hear it from me anymore. Her voice is a scratchy whisper as she opens her beautiful hazel eyes, blinking back tears. “The plan was a good summer together and that’s exactly what we did. I . . . I care about you so much. But I have to do this on my own.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m scared, okay? Relationships have stifled and harmed everyone in my life. You know this, Milo. My sisters’ long-distance relationships were horrible experiences for everyone involved and their kids got the raw deal, too. I can’t stand the thought of that happening to us, of resentmentsbetween us and hatred for each other slowly taking over our lives.” She presses the heels of her palms into her eyes, before dropping her hands and looking at me again. “Please trust me when I say that I just have to do this.”

“I’m trying to trust this is the best thing.” I slide my fingertips across my five o’clock shadow, attempting to curb my tangible sorrow. “But I don’t believe that.”

Her sigh, a sound that simmers with pain, devastates me. She sits up a little and pulls a folded-up paper out of the back pocket of her cut-off jean shorts. When she hands it to me, I recognize the unicorn paper. We continued to share letters at work on occasion throughout the summer—yet another thing I loved that’s going away.

The letter hovers in the air between us as I get up to leave. “You can’t open it yet.” Her voice is pleading. “You have to wait until after I leave tomorrow. I hope this will help you understand.”

I feel my mouth twist to one side, but I don’t know what to say.

“Promise you won’t open it until tomorrow?” she asks.

“I promise, Rose.”

“I know you’re upset. I am, too, because I don’t want things to have to end like this. I’m sorry, Milo.”

I can’t say anything more. I’ve said all I can. She knows where I stand. I know where she stands.

And it’s on two opposite ends of an impossible spectrum.

I walk out of the kitchen and into the living area. One side of my mouth manages to perk into something of a smile. “Knock ‘em dead, Rose.”

Her tongue darts out to moisten her mouth as her eyes tighten at the corners. “Well, the whole point is to save them, not knock them dead, as a nurse . . . you know . . .”

I can’t muster a laugh or even a smile. I just turn around and leave.

Chapter 33

Milo

“And so . . . that’s it, really. The publisher is fast tracking the book, and it should be out next month.”

My heart thuds in my ears. The walls of Sophie and Oliver’s house are closing in on me. My stomach feels like I’m experiencing turbulence on a plane. Nauseated, but with a blip of a thrill at the bumpy ride.

My family is staring at me, and one by one, I meet their eyes. I can’t read my father’s expression, but my mom’s smiling. My brother’s faces hold various levels of shock. Their wives’ do, too. I stare up at the screen in Oliver and Sophie’s game room where I’d cast a photo of the cover of my book,Zehma and the Night Loch.

I ache for Rose. Her absence is palpable. I wish she’d been here when I told them. I’m strong enough to do this on my own . . . I have to be. That doesn’t mean I don’t wish she were here.

A month ago, like Rose predicted, I signed with the agent of my dreams: a woman in New York who is a veteran in the field and represents a lot of big names in the Fantasy space. I was so excited, I nearly called Rose. And then when I got the call only days later that a New York publisher—one of the Big Five—wanted to publishZehma,I, again, very nearly called her.

But I didn’t because she’d asked for a clean break.

Instead, I just drove around the lake, taking the curves of Lakeside Road at borderline-irresponsible speeds, driving up the mountain and around it into the back end of Fairhill. The whole round trip took an hour, and when I got back to the resort, I drove it again.

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