Page 104 of Say Yes to the Nemesis
But there’s another part of me, a softer and more hopeful part, that thinks maybe this time it’s not just a mistake, not just a passing phase for both of us. This part of me wants so badly to trust that it’s real, that it’s right, that it’s more than some fragile illusion. That Ryan won’t leave. That I won’t end up alone, picking pieces of my life off the floor and trying to fit them back together.
He reaches over and tangles our fingers together under the blanket.
Neither of us says anything else.
But we sit like that for a long time, wrapped up in the quiet, the only sounds the occasional hum of traffic from the street and the rustling of leaves in the breeze. We’re both waiting for it to feel less fragile and more certain, wondering if we’re brave enough to let it. Wondering what will happen if it gets even better than this. Wondering what will happen if it doesn’t.
For once, I let myself believe this could be more than pretend.
Later that night, we’re curled up in bed again, the room swathed in shadows that dance over the walls as the fireplace flickers and dies down. I’m cocooned in his hoodie, swamped in warmth and Ryan’s scent. He lies bare-chested beside me, careless and content, like he hasn’t a worry in the world. But I know better.
I can feel it. The subtle shift from comfortable silence to something that feels more jagged. He’s retreating somewhere behind his eyes. I’m not sure if I should follow.
Finally, words escape him like an admission, startling in the quiet of the room. “Of course it had to be you.” It’s a confessionand a defeat all at once. The implication sends a shiver through me.
I freeze, not sure I heard him right. “What?”
He turns his head just slightly, enough for his eyes to meet mine with a look that’s resigned and almost somber. “I’m probably self-sabotaging. I’ve done it before.”
I sit up on my elbow, something snagging in my chest at this unexpected honesty. “Is that why you’ve…?” I start to ask, but the words stick. I can’t finish without sounding like I’ve been keeping track of his history.
Ryan arches an eyebrow, catching my hesitation. “Why I’ve what? Slept my way across the lower forty-eight?”
I wince, not wanting to be that blunt. “That’s not what I meant.”
But it’s true enough, giving voice to the worry that’s been gnawing at me all day. That I’m just one on a long list, that this is a temporary stop on his usual route, one that ends with me being nothing more than a footnote. Not wanting to become vulnerable, the same useless mark I was left with last time. I try to sound lighthearted, but my voice wobbles.
“I just meant, is that why you never… you know?”
I can’t bring myself to say the word commit, as if saying it out loud will destroy this fragile thing between us. It’s a terrifying relief, hearing him say he’s falling for me, but more terrifying is the thought that he might not mean it. That he might be sabotaging both of us without even knowing it.
He shrugs, lazy and unbothered on the surface, like it doesn’t matter, like he doesn’t care. But I can see it. I can see the struggle beneath the calm facade.
“You’re not wrong,” he finally says, his voice almost too casual. “It’s easier when it doesn’t mean anything.” There’s an edge to his words, but I hear it. I hear the truth slipping out.
“But don’t you want something real?” I ask, leaning in closer, trying to make him look at me.
Trying to make him see that I’m here, that I won’t disappear. That I’m not the one he needs to worry about leaving. My voice is soft, tentative. Terrified of what his answer might be.
He doesn’t answer right away. The silence stretches between us. I can feel him wrestling with it, wrestling with himself and what he might say. The air in the room grows thick. I think he’s not going to respond at all.
Then, he says softly, “Love’s just another line people use before they leave.” The words hang there like a challenge, like a heartbreak waiting to happen.
I blink, startled by the rawness of the confession, by the fear I hear behind it. Fear and something else, something that cuts much deeper.
“What do you mean?” I ask, but I think I already know.
His mouth tightens. I see him try to pull the words back inside, try to move past this sudden exposure. But he can’t.
His voice is even, but something sharp flickers behind it, something that twists in my chest and makes my heart hurt. I want to say that he’s wrong, that I’m not like that, that he doesn’t have to be so afraid, but nothing comes out.
I want to ask more. I want him to tell me everything he’s been keeping hidden, everything that makes him think this way. I want to know how to make it better, how to convince him I won’t be like everyone else. How to convince him it can be different this time.
I don’t.
Instead, he clears his throat and glances at me like he’s trying to steer us somewhere safer.
“Your turn,” he says, his voice daring me to be as open as he’s been. “Please, make up a story. Or maybe tell me something that happened a long time ago. Make me feel like less of an idiot.”
