I turn the paper over in my hands. The one that was sitting on my desk when I got in this morning.
Meet me at Miner’s Airfield at five p.m. Wings Out Hangar.
—Gray.
I think back to how well I held it together when I saw the note on my desk. The sob I held back. The tears I blinked away because God knows I’d shed way too many in the past few days.
I’ve sent what feels like a hundred texts to apologize. Left a dozen voicemails.
None of them have gotten a response, and now this.
I look at the hangar in front of me and wonder what he is doing. What this means. I try to rein in the hope that maybe he wants to try to fix things. Maybe he wants to ask me to stay.
What would I say if that were the case? Would I agree? Would I give up my life in San Francisco? Would I give up the job at Haute? All for a chance at love? All for a life with him, here?
I don’t have the answers. I don’t know.
That’s a lie. I do know. And maybe that’s why nerves rattle around as I get out of the car and head to the hangar with the big Wings Out sign above it.
Unsettled and excited, shock mixes in there when I pull open the hangar door to find a table sitting in the middle of the room. There is a mess of candles and a bottle of wine in the center of a red-checkered tablecloth.
It’s oddly romantic in a way that wouldn’t have appealed to me in my old life, but being here, meeting Grayson Malone, may have changed that . . . and many other ways I look at the world.
He’s going to steal my heart, isn’t he? He’s going to tell me he’s sorry in that way he has, he’s going to tell me he wants me to stay, and I’m going to have to make a decision. Six months ago, I wouldn’t have batted an eyelash before I packed my bag and hopped on the flight back home. Standing and looking at candles flicker softly, the decision seems impossible.
My heels click on the concrete floor as I make my way over to the table. Music is playing softly on speakers somewhere in the hangar. There’s a bunch of wild, white daisies in a vase, and napkins folded in an attempt at something artsy that doesn’t quite make it but is thoughtful nonetheless.
The door behind me opens, and my heart jumps in my throat when I turn to find Grayson there, haloed by the sun setting at his back. A tight-lipped smile spreads across those kissable lips, and confusion flickers in his eyes.
“You did all this?” he asks, surprise in his voice as he takes a few steps toward me.
“Me?” I laugh nervously. “I thought you did.”
We both turn at the sound of footsteps, and if it were even possible, my heart falls further. There’s Luke in a vest and slacks with a napkin over his arm and a sheepish smile on his face.
“Luke?” Grayson asks as he looks at me and then back at his son. He obviously didn’t expect him to be here.
“I request your presents at the dinner table,” he says loudly before glancing into the far corner of the warehouse and nodding to someone I can’t see.
“Presence,” Grayson corrects as if it’s second nature before turning and looking at me. “Did you know anything about this?”
I shake my head. “I thought this was all you.”
The look he gives me—eyes narrowed and a slight roll of his shoulders—tells me he’s here out of courtesy. He came here thinking I set this up, and he wanted to see what I had to say. What he doesn’t realize is that with that one revelation, he’s given me a tiny bit of hope that we can right our wrongs.
“I think we’ve been set up,” he mutters under his breath, his irritation palpable despite the smile he displays for his son.
“I think I’m okay with that,” I say and give him a soft smile. Then he places his hand on the small of my back out of manners and ushers me to the table.
“What’s all this, buddy?” Gray asks, struggling to be gracious to his son while still resenting me. He tries to pick Luke up but has his hands batted away.
“I am your server this evening,” Luke says and tries not to giggle. When he fails, and his laughter echoes in the space around us, it’s almost as if an invisible weight has been lifted. As if Luke’s laughter is the encouragement we need to maybe take the first step to talking. “It isn’t kind of you to touch the servers.”
“It isn’t, is it?” Grayson chuckles. “What’s going on?”
“I wanted you and Sidney to have a nice dinner before the final vote . . . and before she has to leave.” And it’s out there. I swallow over the lump in my throat and hate Grayson’s wince. “I thought a romantic dinner without children present was very important. And without people in town knowing so you don’t mess up the vote.”
“Without children present?” Grayson says and lifts his brow.
“Servers are not children.” He laughs again, and another piece of my heart falls at this little boy’s feet. “And this server selected every item on your menu tonight, so don’t throw tomatoes if you don’t like it.”
“We promise not to, especially since said server doesn’t like tomatoes,” Grayson says and winks.
We are both given the biggest grin, which is followed by a nod. “I’ll leave you two to get settled, then. Oh, and wine is there. Breathing when it doesn’t have lungs.” He rolls his eyes. “But I’m not old enough to touch it, so that part you have to do yourself.”
“Yes, sir,” Grayson says. “May I ask who’s helping you?”
“Women.” It’s all he says and grins.
Emerson. Betsy. Dylan. My bet’s on them.
“Thank you, kind sir. Tell the women thank you, too,” I say and turn to look at Grayson. He quickly averts his eyes, but not before I catch the appreciative once-over he gives me.
Silence settles. Shifts. Smothers. We stand here, both more than aware of the millions of unspoken words that need to be said. We are also aware that doing so would risk disappointing a little boy with a wild imagination and a huge heart, who only wants the best for his father.
Grayson clears his throat and I jump. It’s ridiculous, but I’m so nervous.
And then he speaks.
“You look stunning,” he murmurs and steps in to press the softest of kisses against my cheek. My body hums from the slight touch, and before it even starts, I know that this evening might be the hardest one I’ve had in a long time.
Hard to pretend I don’t care that I’m leaving soon. To put on a brave face for Luke while I’m slowly dying inside. To know there’s so much here worth fighting for, and yet I haven’t seen Grayson lace up his gloves or pull up the ropes to step foot in the ring.
“You have one hell of a son, Grayson Malone.”
“I do, don’t I?” Pride lights his eyes. “Shall we?” He pulls out my chair and hands me my napkin before he takes his seat across from mine and pours the cabernet.
The hangar is expansive. Its windows are a good two stories up on the corrugated steel walls, allowing the dusk to seep into the space. There is a plane in the far corner. It’s small and white with blue stripes. Behind us, there is what appears to be a set of steps that lead to a loft.
It isn’t a setting I’m used to, but it’s one that fits the moment and the man across from me perfectly.
“Thank you,” I murmur as I take a sip of wine and meet his eyes above the rim. They hold. And search. And question. But what they search for, I have no idea.
Luke serves us his favorite gourmet salads, which are really just lettuce, balsamic dressing, and croutons, while Grayson and I make small talk. The weather. How busy he has been at work. How the voting is going and all the elevated press we never expected but are so thrilled to have.
Luke has set the stage for a romantic date, and we play the part for him, but every soft smile when he comes near, or interaction to make him laugh, is with an undercurrent of tension and longing.
Of wanting to lean across the table and press a kiss to Grayson’s lips. To connect with him in a real way. Everything thus far—from conversation to eye contact to touch—has been light and impersonal, and it kills me not to tell Grayson to be mad at me. To scream at me. To call me every horrid name I know I deserve.
But then I smile when I see Luke carrying in our entrées. Slices of pizza. Grayson’s laugh echoes off the concrete floors as Luke beams with pride.
“It’s your favorite!” Grayson says and then waits until Luke has ever so carefully set the plates in front of us before he pulls him in for a huge hug.
“Not entirely,” Luke says through his giggle. “I only like cheese. I made sure there was pepperoni on there for you.”
“How noble of you, sir.” Grayson plants a big kiss on his cheek and then tickles him some more.
“Hey, Luke?” I ask and get his attention. “Why don’t you pull up a chair and have dinner with us. I don’t think the three of us have ever eaten a fancy meal together.”
His eyes widen, and his smile turns lopsided. And then it falls. “No, I couldn’t. I’m the server.”
“Servers have to eat, too.” I shrug. “But if you aren’t hungry or anything . . .”
“I’ll get some pizza.”
While we eat, we giggle over stupid things like how the bubbles of Luke’s Sprite tickle his nose. They debate where they want to go if Grayson wins the contest. We talk about upcoming little league games, and Luke and Grayson give me silly ideas for articles I should write for Modern Family. It feels normal, the three of us in a hangar, shut away from the world so people can’t gossip about us being together, and so I can savor each and every moment of this time without any interruption.
Savor my time with Grayson even though I have to be cautious of Luke’s perception.
It’s such a bittersweet feeling. This act we’re putting on . . . but it still feels real. It still gives me a taste of what this family could be like. It still shows me exactly what I screwed up and what I might be missing out on because of it.
Even now . . . with him mad at me and the fear that I won’t win this battle and he won’t accept my apology, I still want him. I want Grayson any way I can get him, even if what he’s willing to give me will never be enough. I’ll just keep wanting more.
After the food is gone, Dylan and Emerson and Betsy take a bow, which leaves me wondering if they knew about our fight . . . our demise . . . and so they helped spearhead this little romantic dinner. They accept our thank-yous before they take Luke home and leave us alone.
We no longer have an excuse not to talk about the elephant in the room.
An awkwardness settles around us.
“That was adorable,” I say.
“It was.” He rocks back on his heels before nodding toward the steps. “There’s a balcony of sorts upstairs if you’d like to get some fresh air.”
“There is?” I ask, but I’m already following him as he climbs the stairs. Blindly and with little hope that we might be able to salvage whatever is left between us.
“Yes. This used to be where Emerson lived. When she ran the skydiving school, before she ended up buying it, they converted the loft for her should she ever need a breather.” He laughs as if her taking a break is ironic.
He opens a door into a small studio apartment. There is a bed in one corner and a kitchenette in the other. We walk through the modestly decorated space to another door. When I step out onto the deck, I’m blown away by the view. Runway lights, trees beyond the strip of asphalt, and hills covered in vines in the distance. There is a soft breeze that blows my hair across my face, but it feels good against the warm night around us.
When I turn to find Grayson, he isn’t staring at the view, but rather, at me. His expression is intense. His eyes are a sea of uncertainty. I want to crawl into his arms. I want to stay right there for as long as we can, so we don’t have to figure out what needs to be faced.
I’m afraid to be the first to speak.
“What are we doing here, Sidney?”
“Looking at the view?” I say to try to add some levity, but he doesn’t even crack a smile.
“I’m serious.” He exhales. “What are we doing here? Are we pretending that we’re something we aren’t? Are we simply accepting that we only have a few weeks left together before you leave and that we’re just going to enjoy the time we have? Or should we call it quits now and save ourselves from the inevitable?”
“Grayson.” His name is barely audible when I speak it, but only because every other part of me is dying inside. “I screwed this up.”
“You did . . .” He shakes his head and takes a step toward me. “But I did too. I screwed up a lot of times and it wasn’t fair for me to ask your forgiveness time and again . . . but you did. And then the first time you screw up, I didn’t give you the same courtesy. But damn it to all hell, Sidney, you’re leaving, and you didn’t tell me?”
My sigh is loud and loaded with the mixture of emotions warring inside me. Fear. Hope. Desperation. Love. Everything I feel and am so damn scared to express. “This wasn’t my intention. To come here. To find you. To fall for you.”
His breath hitches and I know he heard me. “I know you have a life to get back to. Well you know what? So, do I. A life that had no room for you in it, but goddamn it, you’ve weaseled your way in somehow. Now what am I supposed to do? I have more than myself to protect here. I have Luke to think about. I have . . . Christ.” He runs a hand through his hair and paces to the railing before bracing his hands on it and staring at the view beyond. “This will never fucking work.”
The pain in his voice owns me, and I keep hearing his dad’s words in my mind. “If you’re not going to stay, let him push you . . . But if you’re going to stay, I hope like hell you’ll fight for him, because he’s worth every misspoken word and uttered curse and ounce of confusion.”
Is he pushing me, or is he making it easy for me to leave without regret?
Fuck that. There will always be regret. That much I know.
“We could try to make things work. Weekends and little trips back and forth,” I say and then realize how stupid it sounds. How shallow it sounds. That’s no way to have a relationship.
“I can’t make you happy here. This isn’t some big fancy town where trendy nightclubs pop up as quickly as they shut down, and Michael Kors isn’t likely to set up shop any time soon. There isn’t anything here but Luke and me and goddamn grapes on the hill. That’s not enough to make someone like you stay.”
“Someone like me?”
He groans in frustration. “That isn’t what I mean.”
“It’s what it sounds like.”
“It can sound like whatever you want. It seems in your world I’m staying and I’m leaving don’t really seem to have any significance, so does it really matter?”
“Don’t be a jerk.”
“I’m just telling the truth.”
“So are you saying you want to end this—?”
“Sid—”
“Are you pushing me away because you’re too scared to say you want to make this work?”
“Dammit—”
“You think that I think I’m too good for you and Luke and this town and so it’s easier if—”
“Quit putting words in my mouth, Claire!”
And right there is the dagger to my heart. Right there is the exact reason we could never work.
It’s one thing to accuse me of being like her. It’s another to call me by her name because deep down he just can’t get over her.
I take a step back.
“Sid . . .”
I take another step.
“Sidney.” He reaches for me, regret and fear and heartache playing across his features. “I’m sorry . . . I didn’t mean—it was a slip of the tongue. You were thinking I was referring to her and then . . . FUCK!” He shouts and bangs a fist against the railing. “I didn’t mean it.”
He meant everything by it. My heart already knows it.
“You may not think you do, but you did. You have held me up against her pretentious pedestal since the minute you opened your front door almost six months ago. And you know what? Back then, you probably had every right to accuse me of being like her. I was. But things have changed, Grayson. Being here . . . working for Rissa . . . meeting Luke . . . being with you. That has changed me. It has changed me in ways I never saw coming. So for you to stand there and call me her name, it just proves that you don’t know me at all.”
I stand tall, my shoulders square, and in this moment, I realize everything I just said is true. This place has changed me. The people in this town were a huge part of that. And not only did they change me—how I look at things, how I look at other people—they also made me realize how empty my life was before. How hard it’s going to be to go back to it, step into my old life, and not miss all of this.
“You’re right . . .” He takes a step toward me, and all I can do is shake my head and take a step back. “You’re not the same person who set foot here. And I’m not the same man you met. People change. Minds change. Sometimes it takes longer for a heart to forget what was done to it in the past. I guess it’s taking mine longer than most.”
I love him. It’s plain as day to me as I stand here livid with him for telling me I’m just like Claire while at the same time being man enough to admit it.
“But how long is too long to wait?” I ask him, knowing that if he isn’t over her in eight years’ time, when will he be? “There comes a time when you have to choose whether you’re going to remain rooted to your past and the things she did to you, or to take a step forward with a clean slate. You always have a choice, Grayson. What do you choose?”
Choose me.
“It isn’t like that.”
Choose me.
“It isn’t? You tell me that I made a mistake and you’ve forgiven me, but with that one mistake, you’ve already talked yourself out of believing this could work before we ever had a chance.” There is defiance and accusation and desperation in my tone. He has to see what he’s doing, that he is so scared of possibly getting hurt that he’s shut himself away from so much of the good in life as well.
I love you.
Don’t you see that?
Why can’t you see that?
“I’ve already asked one woman in my life to stay—the only other woman I’ve ever let in—and look how that turned out for me. So, I’ll be damned if I ask you, too.”
“I’m not looking for you to ask me to stay. I’m looking to hear you tell me that you want me to.”
“Same difference.”
He’s so frustrating it’s maddening. “That’s the crux of it, isn’t it? You’ll never be over her, and I refuse to take second place.”
“I was over her the minute she walked out my door,” he says through gritted teeth.
“You were? It doesn’t seem that way from where I stand.”
“Really? I told you I wanted to try for something here. For us to figure this out . . . and you lied. How does that not make you like her?”
I stare at him, sick to my stomach and more than knowing I’m in an uphill battle that I don’t think I can win. When I walked into this hangar tonight, I was still one hundred percent undecided I wanted to fight for him.
But I’m fighting.
Because, with him standing in front of me, I know.
It’s just that simple.
“I never lied to you! I just didn’t tell you because I was scared!” I scream, frustrated at him and his fear and how he’s throwing everything but the kitchen sink into this fight to push me away. To paint me in a bad light so that he can walk away with less guilt. “I was scared to tell you and lose you, but it seems like I already have. Just like you’re scared to fight to keep me because you might have to open yourself up to letting someone in. Well, guess what? The possibility of getting hurt is always part of the equation. Always. But so is being loved and cherished and fulfilled. Those are the things you don’t ever talk about or focus on. The late-night calls just to say I love you. The early morning looks over coffee. The knowing you have a friend to sit with you in silence after you’ve had an absolutely shitty day. Those are the things you’re forgetting. Those are the things you’re ‘protecting’ Luke from seeing. What you don’t realize is that when he grows up, he will have no idea what is normal and fulfilling. So, you can keep being scared because, damn you, Grayson . . . you scare the hell out of me, too.”
I pound my fist on the railing because I have so much pent-up emotion, and I’m so mad at him that it’s either that or grab him and kiss him. The latter of which, I don’t want to do. “You take risks every damn day in your job—you’ve made a name for yourself doing it—and yet, you won’t take a goddamn risk on me, will you?”
“It isn’t that easy, Sidney.”
“The best things in life never are easy. You have to work at them and struggle with them just to make them work, but that’s the best reward . . . that you didn’t give up and it netted you something beautiful. We could be beautiful.” I’ve never pleaded in my life, but I’m doing it now. I need to hear him tell me he’ll try. That I’m worth the risk. That he wants me to stay. “I love you, damn it, and I don’t have a fucking clue what to do about it other than to ask you to choose me. To tell me I’m worth the risk.”
Every part of him freezes as every single part of me dies inside.
“I don’t know that I can,” he murmurs. His eyes well, and he blinks the moisture away before turning his back and walking to the edge of the space.
“I never looked for this. I never meant to fall in love with you . . . but I did, and I can’t stop it, and nothing you can say to me can stop it . . .” I hiccup a huge sob.
Ask me. Choose me. Fight for me.
“Sidney . . .”
“It’s okay.” I shake my head as I take a step back, and he turns to face me. “It’s just as shocking to me as it is to you. I have a heart. Who knew?” I say through another hysterical sob.
He takes a step forward, and as much as I tell myself to run as far away from him as possible to protect my heart because he hasn’t given me an inkling of hope, I don’t move.
Not when he frames the sides of my face with his hands.
Choose me.
His lips press kisses against the tracks my tears have left.
His lips meet mine in the sweetest of ways.
Choose me.
Then his hands remain on my cheeks, his forehead rests on mine, and his breath feathers over my lips.
“I’m fucked up, Sidney. And I’m going to keep fucking up. I’m man enough to admit my pride is in the way and I need to sort it out. I need to fix myself or else it isn’t fair to drag you into my life more than I have. It isn’t right for me to attach blame to you when you don’t deserve it. I thought I’d gotten over what she’d done . . . and then your first fuck-up, I call you her name. That isn’t fair to you.” He kisses me oh so softly as my tears fall. “I love you. I think that’s why I fought you so hard. All along, I knew I would fall, and yet, I can’t ask you to stay. I can’t tell you I’ll be perfect. I can’t give you the things that you need to thrive. I have to let you go. It’s going to fucking kill me, but I can’t hold you back here. I can’t clip your wings.”
Ask me to stay.
My shoulders shudder as I fight back the sobs. This tenderness—his tenderness—is too much when I feel like this is our goodbye. I thought I had two more weeks to prepare for this. I thought I’d be able to change his mind even though my mind hadn’t been made up yet.
It is now.
And now he’s pushing me away.
“You deserve so much more than I can give you, Princess.”
For whatever reason, that term—the one he’s always used as a dig but is now used as an endearment—undoes me, makes my bottom lip quiver.
But I want you.
Makes tears fall harder.
“Once you step away from here . . . once you go back to your city and your sidewalks and your nightlife, you’ll see that you missed it all. You’ll know that you’d be settling if you stay here. And you . . . I don’t want you ever to settle.”
My lips find his again. My hands need to touch him. My body needs to feel his against mine—in mine . . . one last time.
Because this is goodbye.
I know it. It’s inevitable.
He knows it. I can feel it in his touch.
Choose me.
So, we make love on the balcony. We make love in the moonlight. We whisper apologies. We groan sweet nothings. But we make no promises.
And later, when he walks me to my car as I fight back the tears, and he presses yet another bittersweet kiss onto my lips, I know this is over.
I could fight. For him. For us. For more. But unless he wants to fight, too, it’s useless.
Maybe he’s right.
Maybe I’m so caught up in the moment I’ve lost sight of everything else.
Maybe he’s right and I’m wrong.
And that’s what hurts the most.