Page 122 of Sweet Caroline
So he doesn’t what?
The vulnerability in his voice stops me from asking what he was about to say. He sounds too fragile. Too fraught. And, even though I’m sure I know the answer, I can’t accept it. Icy fear slips up my spine as I scramble for denial.
“Alright, let’s see…” I search my brain, wanting to tell him everything and nothing all at once. I decide against sharing about how my parents booked a last-minute cruise and ditched me and Grandpa, leaving us to navigate Thanksgiving on our own for the first time ever. Whatever our differences, we’ve always put them aside to spend the holidays together—although I must admit, I’m relieved to have a bit of space from Dad after what happened on election night.
I also decide against telling Miles about Fletcher trying to worm his way back into my life. When he’d pulled me aside in Dad’s office, he’d proposed the ludicrous idea of us as some kind of political power couple—getting back together for the optics alone. He even had the gall to suggest we could be non-monogamous if I still wanted to keep Miles on the side. I’m still reeling from the way my soul recoiled.
No. Anything to do with my parents, my dumpster fire of an ex, or the election feels too loaded to share with Miles right now.
Stick to neutral territory.
“I’m working on planning an art show fundraiser just before Christmas.”
“Oh, that’s great,” he says quietly. “From your proposal thing?”
“Yeah. And Julian agreed to let me organize an exhibition in the spring. Young local artists.” I wander back to my bed and sink down, tucking my feet under me. “Sunny finally wore him down, I guess.”
“I’m happy for you.” I know he means it but, somehow, it doesn’t sound like he can muster uphappy.
Not that I’ve managed to lately, either. I’ve tried to bury myself in work over the last two weeks, but I end up numbly staring at my laptop most nights, trying to wish away the ache in my bones, the silence in my bedroom, the urge to call or text Miles every time it hurts too much not to. I’ve sobbed through multiple therapy sessions, never feeling any relief or release. Working across the street from Miles’ work site all day has been a torturous exercise in trying to keep my gaze from wandering outside the gallery walls. A thousand times a day, I find myself wondering if he’s over there, hating himself for trying to catch a glimpse of me too.
“Ada’s working on a few paintings for it.” I switch my phone to my other ear, sweeping my hair out of the way. “She’s pretty stoked.”
“Awesome.”
More silence.
“Miles?” My voice feels small, and I bunch the loose fabric of my sweater sleeve in my fist.
“Yeah?”
“Tellmesomething true?”
Static whooshes through the phone.
My heart sticks in my throat, but I manage to squeeze out, “Please?”
Tell me you’re okay. Please be okay.
“I’m so tired, Caroline.” His voice catches when he says my name. “I’ve been working so hard. Fighting so hard.”
Guilt grips my stomach. I put him in this position—being with me, loving me, being apart from me, is what led him to this wretched, exhausted moment. I’ve stayed away, knowing it was the right thing to do, knowing he needed to protect his job and focus on himself again. But that doesn’t mean it’s been easy for him to cope.
“I’m so proud of you.” I barely get the words out. “You know that?”
“You shouldn’t be. I’m so fucked up.”
“No.” There’s an edge to my voice I can’t hide. “You’re brilliant and kind and fun and funny, and you work harder on yourself than anyone I know. And you’re my favorite fucking person in the world.”
There’s a long pause before he speaks. “You swore.”
I swipe the tears from my cheeks. “Someone once told me it was cathartic.”
“Smart someone.” He sniffs.
“He’s handsome too.”
He huffs out a breath—almost a chuckle. “The whole package.”
