“Mirella,” he sighs. “You’re the one who called me. You wanted to tell me something. Now, I’m not sure what you wanted to say, but it’s been driving me crazy.”
He’s right. I did call him.
“That day in that little coffee shop when you told me you wanted to end things, I couldn’t think straight,” he confesses and part of me just wants to reach out to him and tell him I’m sorry.
“I couldn’t imagine ever being able to let you go,” he goes on. “I think that’s the reason I reacted the way I did. But I knew it was what you truly wanted. And I wanted to give you what you wanted. Everything you’ve ever wanted, I’ve wanted to give to you,” he says, venturing a look up at me, his eyes so vulnerable.
I feel myself weaken and I need to turn my gaze away.
“And I also knew it was for the best…for all of us,” he goes on. “That’s when I vowed to do anything in my power to stay away from you and move on with my life.”
I’m still not looking at him but every inch of me is reluctantly glued to him, to his words.
“I’ve started seeing my therapist again. And she’s helping me. She truly is.”
“I’m so glad to hear this, Weston,” I tell him, thinking that at least one of us is getting desperately needed help. I don’t even know if a therapist could help me at this point. I know I’m completely fucked-up and it most likely goes back to the day my mother left me.
“She’s helped me realized that I’ve been using you as a coping mechanism,” he explains, still staring at his uneaten roast beef sandwich, “like some might use drugs, or alcohol. She says I’ve been using sex.”
The word shocks me. But I’m glad he’s discovering these truths — truths I’ve recently been discovering too.
“But I tell her it’s not just sex with you,” he goes on and his gaze fixes mine again. “She doesn’t seem to understand that I truly love you.”
My heart sinks. He hasn’t let go. “So you’ve been arguing with your therapist?” I ask. “I think that’s a bit counterproductive.”
He smiles. “I know.”
God, that smile.
Please stop smiling.
“But whatever this might be with you,” he carries on. “It’s true. I’ve been using you to deal with my past, the memories I can’t face, that I don’t want to think about. When I’m with you, you’re all I think about, Mirella. You make me so happy. Do you have any idea what that feels like?”
I can’t imagine. I’ve never been in his shoes. I’ve never suffered such a tragedy, such insurmountable pain. My throat tightens and my eyes well up at the thought.
Please don’t make me cry.
“She says I need to let you go and move on. And on this, I completely agreed with her. And I was trying. I was doing so well, finally moving on. I threw myself into my work, and spent more time with Lizzie and Ashton, as she suggested. I was making so much progress,” he says, lifting his beautiful eyes to mine, “and then, you called.”
I know. I know I shouldn’t have called.
“I didn’t even hear your voice. Just the sight of your name on my display completely did me in, Mirella. It crumbled all my efforts. I was right back to square one.”
“I’m sorry,” I whisper. But I know ‘sorry’ isn’t enough.
His beautiful eyes are fixed on me when he says, “Perhaps you just wanted to tell me you missed me.”
I have missed you.
He leans in close to me. “Please, tell me why you called. I want to know.”
No, you don’t. Believe me.
I smirk at him like a petulant teenager. “I’m sorry. I just…”
I can’t tell him. I know I should. He should know. He’s this child’s father. But I know that as soon as I say the words, everything changes — all our lives. And I know I need to tell Gabe first. He deserves to be the first one to hear this.
I close my eyes and lean back on the chair. I can’t do this right now. “I’m sorry, Weston, could you please leave?”
“No,” he says. “I’m not leaving until we discuss this.”
He wants to know why I called. I know he won’t let up until I’ve told him why I called him that day.
I press my hand against the small, almost nonexistent bump, the fabric of my apron rough against my