Page 60 of After Everything
I sighed. "What do you want me to say?"
"That you've been doing this dance for nine months and maybe it's time to actually make a move." He took a sip of his beer. "You've done the work. Therapy, sobriety, building your practice. At some point, you have to find out if there's a chance."
"There's not."
"You don't know that."
"Marcus." I set down my glass. "She made it very clear three years ago that we were done. I've respected that. I'm not going to show up now and… what? Ask her out? She's moved on."
"Has she?"
"She's dating someone. That guy fromthe restaurant, remember? Connor something. They've been together for months."
Marcus studied me. "And if she wasn't?"
I didn't answer.
"That's what I thought." He signaled the bartender for another beer. "Look, I'm not saying charge in there like an idiot. But you can't just wait forever, hoping she'll magically decide to give you another chance. Eventually, you have to at least ask."
"And if she says no?"
"Then you have your answer and you can move on." He paused. "But what if she says yes?"
I thoughtabout that conversation the whole walk home.
Nine months. Eighteen cases. Professional emails that stayed strictly professional. Boundaries I'd maintained so carefully they'd become second nature.
And underneath all of it, the same question I'd been asking myself for three years: Was there any chance she'd forgive me?
Not even forgive. That felt like too much to hope for. Just... talk. Have coffee. See if we could exist in the same space without the weight of everything I'd destroyed crushing both of us.
But she was with someone else. And I wouldn't—couldn't—interfere with that. I'd caused enough damage. I wasn't going to be the guy who tried to break up her relationship because I'd finally gotten my shit together.
My phone buzzed. An email from a potential client, referred by Maria. Another DV case. Another woman who needed help.
I opened my laptop at my kitchen table and started drafting a response.
This was my life now. Small cases, pro bono work, clients who actually needed me. Not corporate billable hours or partnership tracks or any of the things I'd once thought mattered.
This was good work. Important work.
It just wasn't enough to stop me from thinking about Emma.
CHAPTER 19: EMMA
Connor set down his fork and looked at me.
"You're doing it again," he said.
I blinked. "What?"
"That thing where you're physically here but mentally somewhere else." He smiled, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. "You've been doing it a lot lately."
We were at the Italian place we'd gone to on our first date since Connor’s return from Seattle. Four months ago now. Connor had made the reservation, said he wanted to take me somewhere nice. I'd known what that meant—relationship check-in, where-is-this-going conversation—and I'd come anyway.
Because he deserved that. Deserved honesty.
"I'm sorry," I said. "Work's been busy."
