Page 32 of A Season of Second Chances
"Winter…"
"Answer it, Joy. What would you pick?"
Her voice is barely a whisper when she finally responds. "You. I'd pick you."
The relief that floods through me is overwhelming. "Then pick me. Pick us. Pick the life you actually want instead of the life you thought you were supposed to have."
"What would our life look like?" she asks suddenly, cutting me off. "If I stayed in Pine Ridge. What would that actually look like?"
The question catches me off guard, but I don't hesitate. This is it. My chance to paint the picture, to show her what we could have.The life I want us to have.
"Mornings," I start, my voice soft. "Mornings where you wake up in my bed, in our bed, with the sun coming through the window. Where Alana runs in and jumps on us because she's excited about either a school field trip or a new book or just because it's Saturday."
Joy's crying still, but she's listening.
"Breakfasts in the lodge kitchen," I continue. "If we choose not to do that, then in our home.The three of us cooking together, making too much food. Alana helping you flip pancakes while I make coffee. Fighting over who gets the last piece of bacon."
A small smile breaks through her tears.
"Days where you work at the lodge doing the social media and the marketing. Days where you have lunch with Fiona or Carol or any of the other people in town who would love to get to know you again. Days that are worth living."
"Afternoons," I keep going, building the vision. "Afternoons where we pick Alana up from school together when she starts, and she tells us about her day. Where we help her with homework at the kitchen table and maybe bake cookies just because. Where the three of us go for walks in the woods or play in the snow or just curl up by the fire and read."
Joy's hand finds mine again, squeezing tight.
"Evenings where we have dinner as a family. Where Alana sets the table and you make something mouth-watering and I clean up afterward because that's gonna be our deal. Where we talk about our days and laugh about stupid things and make plans for the weekend."
"Nights," I whisper, pulling her closer, putting my chin on her head. "Nights where we put Alana to bed together, both of us tucking her in and kissing her goodnight. Where we have time just for us, to talk or watch a movie or just be together. Where I get to fall asleep next to you and wake up next to you and know that you're not going anywhere."
She's sobbing now, but not pulling away.
"And then," I say, my own voice thick with emotion, "in a year or two or whenever we're ready, maybe we add to our family. A little brother or sister for Alana. Maybe two. As many as you want. As many as we can handle."
"Winter," she breathes.
"That's what our life would look like," I tell her. "Simple. Comfortable. Full of love and laughter and all the small moments we've both always wanted. Not exciting or glamorous or impressive to anyone but us. Just good, happy, ours."
She's quiet for so long I start to panic again. Maybe I've said too much. Maybe I've pushed too hard.
"I want that," she whispers. "God help me, I want that so much."
My heart soars. "Then take it. It's right here, Joy. All you have to do is say yes."
But she's shaking her head, even as she says she wants it. "I need to think. I need to go back to Indianapolis and really think about this without you right in front of me making me feel things."
"No." The word comes out harsher than I intended, and she flinches. "Sorry, I didn't mean it like that. I just... Joy, if you leave now, you're not coming back. We both know it. You'll go back to your apartment and your job and your routine, and you'll convince yourself that you made the right choice. That staying here would have been a mistake."
"You don't know that."
"I do know that. Because that's what happened last time. You left, and you built a whole life around justifying that decision. Around proving that leaving was the right thing to do. And now here you are, ten years later, finally admitting that maybe it wasn't."
She pulls away completely now, backing toward her car. "That's not fair, Winter. You can't…"
"I'm not trying to be fair." My voice is rising, desperation bleeding through. "I'm trying to be honest. I'm trying to fight for us, because clearly I didn't fight hard enough last time."
"You can't blame yourself for me leaving."
"I don't. I blame myself for letting you go without a fight. For not trying to find you and go after you. What I should have done was tell you I loved you too much to watch you walk away."
