“Too late for what?” I asked anyway.
She shook her head. “Jonas, I've been crying on the beach for hours, the day after my movie premiere.”
I closed my eyes against the pain and regret washing over every inch of my body. “It was a mistake, Mara. A snap judgement after a long day. Ipromiseit will not happen again.”
Her expression didn’t change. Didn’t soften. “I can't do this. I can't be the girl who cries about what a guy thinks of her on the most successful night of her life. I can't be the girl who turns down an opportunity like this or even thinks twice about something so incredible.” She took a deep breath. “I'm not going to have children, Jonas. My books, the movie, the television show... that is my legacy that I get to leave to every girl who's ever felt the way I've felt.”
I looked at her, met her eyes, silently begging for her to say something else, to change what I knew would happen.
“And I love you so much, that for a moment there, when I was on the beach, I thought maybe I should just cancel this Atlanta thing and be together.” She chewed on her lip, tears streaming down her cheeks again. “I’ll always love you, Jonas, always love your family for all that they’ve done for me, but Ihaveto love myself more. Because there's never been anyone in my life who put me first. I have to do that for myself.”
My stomach churned with regret, because she was right. I’d had a chance to put her first. And I hadn’t. I had put my own selfish wants above her dreams. And if this is what she was saying she wanted, if this career was what she wanted and she thought that I could get in the way, then I had a let her go. I had to respect what she wanted. What she’d told me from the very beginning. I had been selfish, arrogant to think that she could want anything else than what she told me right up front.
“I'm so sorry,” I said, my voice shaking. “I’ll never be able to tell you how much.”
She looked me in the eyes, breaking down every last part of me, and said, “Me too.”
50
Mara
Confession: I walked away from the love of my life.
I walked inside,tears hot on my eyes, and closed the door behind me.
I’d just walked away from the love of my life; I could feel it.
But I couldn’t go back. Couldn’t live a life I wasn’t meant for.
I had dedicated my entire adult life to creating stories, and that’s what they were. Fiction. And no matter how much I wished my own life story could end with a neatly wrapped bow in the form of an HEA, this was real life. It didn’t work like that—not where I was concerned. And certainly not in the way it looked in the movies.
In real life, love required sacrifice, and there were some sacrifices I wasn’t willing to make. So I let him go, no matter how much it fucking hurt. My version of happily ever after was making something of my life after the hand I’d been dealt, showing other women that no matter what hell life had put them through, they could always reach for their dreams.
Writing, creating, that was my dream. And I’d soon have a ticket to Atlanta to do just that.
In my living room that felt much less like home than Jonas’s did, I slipped out of my dress and walked to my bedroom, peeling off the sticky backless bra I’d worn to the premiere and then slipped out of my thong as well.
I stepped into the shower, rinsing the lingering sand and salt from my body, then got out, twisting my hair up in a messy bun. In my room, I flipped through my closet, seeing only leggings and big T-shirts, a couple dresses, and one pair of jeans that probably didn’t fit anymore.
I needed to better than this. I couldn’t dress like a slouch in front of professional writers. And okay, maybe I needed a distraction, so I decided to go shopping.
I grabbed my purse and left the house, going to the closest department store that actually carried my size. It had been forever since I’d worn something that didn’t have a stretchy waist, so I grabbed a heap of jeans and brought them to the dressing room to discover what size I actually wore.
In the fluorescent light, surrounded by four gray walls, I realized how much of a mess I looked. There were dark, puffy circles under my eyes. I hadn’t brushed my hair, so my bun was particularly tangled and askew. But more than that, the perpetual smile was missing from my lips. There was no light in my face.
I’d left it with Jonas when I walked away.
I turned away from the mirror. This version of me would fade, like all the skins I’d shed to become the woman I was today.
I finally found my size—or the closest thing to it—and emotionlessly noted the digits. Twenty-four, although that would probably change brand to brand. I waited for the old shame about my size to come back, but it didn’t. I was actually okay with myself, okay with my body that had carried me this far.
I hung all the pairs back up so the attendant wouldn’t have to do it and went in search of business-casual clothing, loading my cart with jeans and skirts and tops that would go with them. Each one I found was a little boost of endorphins, dulling the sharp edge of my loss for a moment or two before I moved on to the next.
I even got a few dress shoes (mostly flats) that were cute and comfortable enough to go with the clothes, and hell, while I was at it, I got a few necklaces and a cute hardback rolling bag for the plane too.
The person at the register looked at my cart in shock and then got to checking. She didn’t even ask me if I found everything I came for (which is a silly question anyway, if you ask me). Six hundred and ninety-seven dollars later, I was back in my truck, driving toward my house, wishing I could stop at Jonas’s instead.
I spent the day cleaning, packing, tearing tags off new clothes and running them through the washer before adding them to the bag.