Page 127 of American Beauty

Magnolia,

I know I’m the last person you want to hear from right now. And I don’t deserve your time—not even a second of it—but I’m asking anyway. Please.

I miss you so much. More than I thought was even possible.

I’ve spent every day since you left trying to figure out how I let this happen. How I lost you. And how I ruined it. I know I did. I took your trust andsmashed it to pieces. And now I’m the guy waking up every morning filled with nothing but regret.

I don’t sleep. I don’t eat. I don’t even know who I am anymore.

Please don’t throw us away. Please don’t let this be the end.

I’ll do whatever it takes. Just tell me there’s still a chance.

You’re the best thing that ever happened to me.

—Ty

I close the email and stare at the screen, jaw tight, breath shallow.

Tyson McRae is a lot of things. A liar, manipulator, master of twisting truth. But one thing he is not––a man who gets a second chance. Not with me.

He shattered my trust. He is the source of me being wrecked from the inside out. Destroyed for months.

And now he wants a chance to do it all over again? Hell no.

I don’t hesitate. My fingers move fast, fueled by disgust, as I block his email address without blinking.

He doesn’t get to speak to me again. Not now. Not ever.

I close the laptop, set it beside me, and stare straight ahead. The waiting room is too cold, too quiet, and I can’t sit still.

I glance at the time again. Only ninety minutes have passed. It feels like five hours.

I shift in the chair. Cross and uncross my legs. Run my hand down my jeans and then across the armrest, like movement might keep the fear from settling.

Panic is whispering to me.

What if something went wrong?

What if they opened him up, and it was worse than they thought?

What if he doesn’t wake up?

I close my eyes, press my fingers to the center of my chest. There’s no reason to spiral. No logical reason to fall apart. But love doesn’t care about logic. And fear doesn’t need facts to make itself at home.

Time stretches, and I pace the hallway, my sneakers whispering over polished tile. I try sitting again, but the seat’s too stiff, the silence too loud. I grab a coffee from the vending machine in the corner just to have something to do with my hands. It tastes like burnt water, but I drink it anyway.

Because anything is better than feeling this helpless.

And then—finally?—

“Mrs. Sebring?”

I turn on instinct. Hearing myself called that… God, it does something to me. Lodges something soft and warm right beneath my ribs.

The nurse smiles and gestures for me to follow her. “This way.”

She leads me down a short corridor and into a small consultation room. Neutral walls. Soft lighting. A table with tissues in the center, just in case.

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