Page 109 of Off-Limits as Puck

“I came here for an hour. To see you speak, to know you were okay, to give you those and leave.”

“But you didn’t leave.”

“You spotted me before I could make my escape.”

“Lucky me.”

The words hang between us, loaded with possibility and history and the growing realization that we’re having a conversation we’ve both been avoiding for months.

“Reed,” she says carefully, “why are you really here?”

“I told you—”

“The real reason.”

I look at her standing there in the Arizona sun, holding sunflowers and waiting for honesty I’m not sure I’m brave enough to give. Behind her, Frank has apparently decided this is better than cable television and settled in to watch the whole show.

“Because I miss you,” I admit. “Because every good thing I’ve done since Chicago has been me trying to become someone you could be proud of. Because I told the truth on national television, but the biggest truth is that I’m still in love with you and probably always will be.”

Chelsea’s eyes widen. The flowers tremble in her hands.

“Reed—”

“I’m not asking for anything,” I continue quickly. “I’m not here to complicate your life or ask you to forgive me or pretend we can fix what we broke. I just needed you to know that you mattered. That what we had mattered. That you didn’t just destroy my life—you saved it.”

She’s crying now, silent tears that track down her cheeks while she clutches sunflowers like a lifeline.

“You can’t just—” She stops, takes a shaky breath. “You can’t just show up here and say things like that.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m finally okay. I’m finally building something thatworks, something that’s mine, something that doesn’t require choosing between my heart and my future.”

“I know. That’s why I was leaving.”

“But you’re not leaving. You’re standing here telling me you love me.”

“Because you asked for the truth.”

“I didn’t ask for that truth.”

“What truth did you want?”

She looks at me for a long moment, sunflowers forgotten, tears drying in desert heat.

“I wanted you to tell me you were happy,” she whispers. “That you’d moved on. That the interview was closure, not...” She gestures helplessly. “This.”

“Are you happy?” I ask.

She huffs, glancing around. She wipes her eyes. “I don’t know. I’m getting there.”

“That’s not the same thing.”

“It’s enough.”

“Is it?”

She doesn’t answer, which is answer enough. We stand here in the parking lot of a Phoenix strip mall, surrounded by the debris of everything we’ve lost and the possibility of everything we might still choose.

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