The Last Phone Booth in Manhattan(86)
He cupped my chin, gently nudging it in his direction, forcing me to meet his gaze. “No, you’re wrong. We’ve been given the gift of a second chance, and we get to make it work this time,” he said, urgency filling his voice.
I stood up and walked over to the window, taking in the expanse of buildings out over the horizon. “Except we were so caught up in the here and now, we never bothered confronting all the reasons that didn’t work the last time. You haven’t done anything wrong. And neither have I. You are who you are, and I love who you are. You’re an incredible human being, and I don’t want to ask you to change all the things that make you you . . . for me. And I know you wouldn’t want that either. That’s the thing—the thing people don’t talk about enough. How it’s possible to love someone and want everything good for that person, but despite that, also know it still isn’t meant to be.” I turned to face him. “I want you to go to DC and do all the amazing things I know you’ll do there. But I can’t go with you.”
“You don’t have to come to Washington with me right now.” He advanced toward me, but I backed away, afraid that if he stepped in too close or grazed against my skin just the right way, I’d completely lose my nerve. He relented and swiped a hand over his chin while he thought. “We can do long distance for a while, you know, until you’re ready to move to DC. Lots of people do.”
For a while. Deep down, though—he’d never admit it, and maybe he wasn’t even aware—he still saw my dreams as secondary to his own, much like Adam had. Maybe I’d even given them both that impression over the years. But it wasn’t how I felt now. Not anymore. It wasn’t Gabe who was “The One That Got Away,” it was me. I was the one who had gotten away, and I wouldn’t let that happen again, even if it broke my heart and his to be the one who had to say it.
I held up my hands to create a barrier between us. “It isn’t about the distance and isn’t about not wanting to go. It’s about wanting to stay. You once told me I could light up Manhattan if I just let myself. And I want to try, need to try. You know it too, Gabe, we want . . . we just want different things.”
He gently lowered my arms and stepped in close, his body hovering over mine and his eyes pleading with me to just give in. “I want you,” he whispered, his hands coming up to rest on my cheeks and then tracing their way to the sensitive skin on my neck.
I thought my heart was going to shatter into a million pieces right there, but it stayed surprisingly resolute. I pulled back and rested my palm on his chest. “No, you want the me that would pack up her whole life right now, give everything else up, and follow you without a second thought or single ounce of regret. But I’d be filled with it. It would poison us. Maybe not at first, but over time.”
“But I love you. And you love me.” He shook his head, moistened his lips, and looked into my eyes. “You jump, I jump, right?”
“No, Gabe. Not this time. I can’t jump. I do love you. If that was all this was about, my answer would be easy. But don’t you see, in so many ways we’re right back to where we were seven years ago when we sat in that café, our passions pushing us to different places. Places I know deep down we both want to go, and should go, without anything or anyone holding us back.”
“Holding us back . . . ,” Gabe repeated in a whisper with a disbelieving nod, as if the words were too heavy to say with more force.
He stayed silent for a moment, not firing back a rebuttal, his default, which was all the confirmation I needed to know that though this was painful beyond measure, somewhere in his gut, he agreed.
Gabe sighed, releasing both the breath in his lungs and the weight of the truth, something that, up until now, he’d been reluctant to acknowledge. “So what happens to us?” he asked.
My eyes brimmed with hot tears, and I swallowed past the tight knot in my throat. “We go our separate ways, wish each other well, and cheer one another on from the sidelines, the way we should have been doing all along. Just think, we finally replaced that question mark with a period, and maybe now we can close this door and really move forward.”
He pulled me into his broad chest. “For what it’s worth, I’ll never be sorry you came knocking on mine.” His thick lashes hooded a heavy gaze, his expression wistful and full of reflection.
Without even thinking, I recited aloud the words that had become almost like a prayer to me. “‘No space of regret can make amends for one life’s opportunity misused.’”
“It wasn’t misused. And I have no regrets. Not a single one,” he said, and pressed his lips to the top of my head.
“No, me either.” I inched up on my toes, pushed my fingers through his wavy hair, and kissed Gabe goodbye for the very last time.
Chapter Forty-Three
I slid my time card into the clock and waited for the familiar punch before grabbing the set list off the wall and heading to the dressing room. I glanced down. Ugh, not again. I appreciated Sir Andrew Lloyd Webber as much as the next gal, but if I had to pour myself into a spandex unitard for the Cats megamix one more time, I was gonna give Charlie a “Memory” he wouldn’t soon forget.
As I started to open my makeup case on my dresser, a loud bang made me practically jump out of my skin. “Jesus Christ!” I shouted, and reeled around to find Charlie dressed in a long white robe and Birkenstock sandals and holding a shepherd’s staff.