Page 2 of Worth the Wait

"I know." His thumbs brush over my cheekbones, catching tears I hadn't realized were falling. The pad of his thumb comes away wet, glistening in the afternoon light. "But we'll make it work. We'll call every day, visit whenever we can. And then I'll come to Northwestern, and we'll get that apartment together, just a little later than we planned."

"You never said it was that bad with your dad's business," I whisper, mentally cataloging our conversations. There had been mentions of "tough times" and "restructuring," but nothing that suggested crisis, nothing that threatened the carefully constructed blueprint of our future.

"He didn't want anyone to know. His pride…" Jackson shakes his head, a muscle working in his jaw. "He wouldn't even tell me how serious it was until last week. If I don't help, thirty-seven people will lose their jobs. My dad will lose everything he's built."

Like my father did, I think but don't say. Instead, I ask, "Two years of long distance? That's the new plan?" The words taste bitter on my tongue, like ashes.

"I'll drive up as often as I can." His eyes plead for understanding, dark pools I could drown in if I let myself. "We'll make it work, Tar. I promise."

Two years. The words echo in my head, distorting into something unrecognizable. Two years of what? Occasional visitssqueezed between his sixty-hour workweeks and my full course load? Daily calls that gradually become less frequent as our lives diverge? Me, alone at Northwestern without the one person I thought would be by my side?

"I thought we made these decisions together," I say, hating how small my voice sounds, how it threatens to break on each syllable.

"This wasn't a decision, Tar. It's an obligation." The slight edge in his tone ignites something defensive in me, a spark of anger that cuts through the numbness of shock.

"An obligation you kept secret until practically right before we—I leave?" I stand up abruptly, the daisy crown tilting precariously. "Were you ever going to tell me if you hadn't been backed into a corner?"

"That's not fair." He rises too, his height suddenly intimidating rather than comforting. The sun catches in his dark hair, highlighting strands of gold I've traced with my fingers a thousand times. "I've been trying to find another solution for days. I thought— I hoped?—"

"You hoped what? That your father's failing business would magically recover? That you could avoid having this conversation entirely?" The hurt morphs into anger, protective and sharp. I know I’m being selfish but I can’t seem to stop myself from lashing out at him.

"I hoped I wouldn't have to choose!" The words burst from him with unexpected force. "Between the future I want and the family who needs me."

The implication hangs in the air between us—that I'm asking him to choose me over his family's welfare, over thirty-seven livelihoods. Guilt and resentment twist together in my chest, an impossible knot that tightens with each breath.

"I'll be starting college alone," I say finally, the fight draining from me like water through cupped hands. "Everything we planned?—"

"Changes," he interrupts softly, reaching for me again, his touch gentler now, almost tentative. "But not the most important parts. Not how I feel about you. Not our future together."

But even as he says it, I can see the uncertainty in his eyes, feel it in the slight tremor of his fingers against my skin. We both know how easily distance can erode connection, how quickly "every day" can become "when we can" and then "when we remember."

I think of my own father's defeat—the slow collapse of his spirit as he lost everything. I imagine Jackson watching his father follow the same path, bearing the weight of that guilt forever.

"Okay," I whisper, though everything in me rebels against this sudden deviation from our careful plans. "We'll figure it out."

Relief floods his expression, followed quickly by a desperate kind of love that makes my chest ache. His kiss is urgent now, tinged with the salt of tears I hadn't realized I was shedding. His hands move across my body with newfound intensity, as if trying to memorize the feel of me, store it up against the coming absence.

The daisy crown falls unnoticed to the ground as he lowers me onto the blanket, his body covering mine in a familiar weight that suddenly feels impermanent. Every touch is heightened by the knowledge that soon, time will divide us—not just by me leaving for school as we'd planned, but by diverging paths neither of us foresaw.

His mouth at my neck is more desperate than I've ever felt it, teeth grazing the sensitive skin where my pulse hammers wildly.His hands trace paths across my ribs, my waist, fingers pressing slightly harder than usual, as if trying to leave impressions of himself on my skin that will last through our separation. I arch into his touch, suddenly hungry for the connection, needing the physical affirmation of what we're promising to preserve across distance and time.

Later, as the sunset paints the sky in impossible shades of orange and pink, we dress in silence heavy with things unsaid. The daisy crown lies forgotten in the grass, petals already beginning to wilt in the evening heat.

I leave it there deliberately, this symbol of promises that already feel less certain than they did this morning. Something in me knows that whatever we are to each other after this, we will never again be the teenagers who wove flower crowns and planned forever with the casual certainty of those who have never lost anything that mattered.

As I walk away, I hear him behind me, the soft sound of petals and stems being gathered. When I glance back, Jackson is carefully pressing a single daisy between the pages of the leather journal I gave him last Christmas. His expression is so nakedly vulnerable that I almost turn back, almost run to him and promise that nothing will change, that we'll weather this unexpected storm.

But the truth hangs between us, unspoken yet undeniable: everything has already changed. And neither of us knows if what we have—this first, fierce love—will be strong enough to survive it.

The morningof my departure dawns with a cruel perfection—cloudless blue skies and golden sunlight that seem to mock theleaden weight in my chest. My suitcases stand by the door, neat and organized, everything I'll need for my new life carefully packed away. Everything except the one thing I want most: the certainty that Jackson will be there with me.

He arrives early, helped by my parents to load the car, his movements efficient but his eyes constantly seeking mine across the driveway, across the living room, across every space that suddenly seems too large and too small all at once. The air between us vibrates with unspoken words, with promises we're both desperately hoping we can keep.

"I think that's everything," my father says, closing the trunk with a sound that seems to echo with finality. He and my mother exchange a look before tactfully retreating inside, leaving Jackson and me alone in the driveway, standing in the shadow of imminent separation.

"You're going to be amazing," Jackson says, his voice rough with emotion. He steps closer, his hands finding my waist with the easy familiarity of someone who knows exactly how my body fits against his. The warmth of his palms seeps through my thin cotton dress, a brand against my skin I wish I could preserve.

"Without you," I whisper, the words catching on the jagged edges of my throat.

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