Page 77 of Merry Me
“I’m not,” I said, keeping my voice low and steady. “I’m not trying to get credit for showing up. I’m just…trying to show up. For real. The way I’ve wanted to for a long time.”
Her gaze dropped again, this time to the surface of her cocoa, where she’d started stirring in slow, mindless circles with a spoon, like she was hoping the swirl would sort her thoughts for her.
“Do you ever think about how things might’ve gone if we hadn’t broken up?” she asked, her voice soft but clear.
“All the time,” I said without hesitation.
Her head snapped up, like she hadn’t expected the answer to come so easily, so honestly. Her eyes searched mine like she didn’t want to believe it but also needed to.
I didn’t flinch.
“But that’s not why I’m here,” I added, holding her gaze. “I’m not asking to rewind the clock. I’m not trying to force us back into something we were just because it feels good to remember it.”
She waited, silent, still, but everything about her posture said she was listening with both her ears and every inch of her heart.
“I’m here,” I said simply, “because I still care. Because I want to know the woman you’ve become. Because no matter how much time has passed…being near you still feels like home. Like I’ve been holding my breath for years and only now remember how to breathe.”
Her breath hitched—just a little. She blinked fast, like she was trying to will away the emotion threatening to spill over. “Easton…”
“You don’t have to say anything,” I said gently. “You don’t have to decide anything. I just…needed you to know that.”
She didn’t speak.
Not right away.
She looked down at her mug again, like maybe if she stared long enough the steam would rise and write a clear answer in the air.
I didn’t rush her.
Didn’t fill the silence with anything but my presence.
And finally, after what felt like forever wrapped in one soft, glowing kitchen, she exhaled.
“I’m not ready to jump back into anything,” she said, her voice barely more than a breath. “I don’t even know what I’m ready for.”
“That’s okay,” I said again.
“I’m scared,” she admitted. “Not just of you. Of me. Of falling again and not knowing if I can catch myself this time.”
The honesty in her voice hit like a punch and a prayer all at once. She wasn’t building walls—she was laying herself bare.
My heart ached, not in that teenage-heartbreak way, but in that adult, deep-down, soul-level ache that came from seeing the person you loved trying to protect the most tender parts of themselves.
“I get that,” I said. “You don’t have to fall. Not all at once.”
I took a step closer.
“Just…walk with me. That’s all I’m asking.”
It was a lie.
Because I didn’t just want a walk.
I wanted everything. Her hand in mine, her voice in my ear, her forever folded into mine like it was the only way either of us made sense.
Her eyes lifted to mine again, and something in them softened—not a green light, not a promise. But maybe a chink in the armor. A flicker of warmth in a room that had stayed cold too long.
“Walk?” she repeated, as if testing the word in her mouth.
