Chapter Nineteen
807 Words
The first week without Adrian was the hardest.
I woke up reaching for him. Made coffee for two. Forgot, every single time, that I was alone. Pickles sat on the counter and watched me with eyes that said I told you so.
"I didn't make a mistake," I told him.
He yawned.
"I didn't."
He started cleaning his paw.
"Fine. Maybe I did."
He jumped down and walked to the door. Waiting. For Adrian. For the man who scratched his ears and let him sleep on his laptop and somehow, impossibly, loved me.
"He's not coming," I said.
Pickles didn't believe me.
Neither did I.
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My mother called every day.
"How's the cat?"
"Fine."
"How's the apartment?"
"Small."
"How's Adrian?"
I paused. Looked at the paperback on my nightstand. The one he'd left. I'd read it twice.
"I don't know."
"Yes, you do. You're just scared to say it."
"I'm not scared."
"You ran home to Bleaker Street. That's not something brave people do."
"Mom—"
"I love you. But you're being an i***t. Call him."
She hung up.
I didn't call him.
---
Adrian sent flowers on day three.
Not roses. Not anything fancy. A small bouquet of wildflowers, the kind you'd pick from a field, tied with twine instead of ribbon.
The card said: "These reminded me of you. Messy. Beautiful. Impossible to ignore."
I put them in a jelly jar on the windowsill.
Pickles tried to eat them.
I didn't stop him.
---
Ms. Vane showed up on day five.
She didn't knock. Just walked in like she owned the place, which—given how small it was—was almost funny.
"You look terrible," she said.
"Good morning to you too."
She set a bag of groceries on the counter. Real groceries. Vegetables. Pasta. Coffee that didn't come from a can.
"Adrian sent you?"
"Adrian doesn't know I'm here."
"Then why—"
"Because someone has to knock some sense into you, and your mother is too far away to do it herself."
I stared at her. "You're not supposed to be nice to me. You're supposed to be efficient and mysterious and slightly intimidating."
"I can be all those things and still tell you you're being an idiot." She crossed her arms. "He's miserable."
"He's the one who—"
"You left. Not him. You left, you didn't leave a note, and you've been ignoring his calls for five days."
"He texted me every hour."
"Because he loves you, you absolute walnut."
I opened my mouth. Closed it.
Ms. Vane—efficient, mysterious, slightly intimidating Ms. Vane—sighed.
"He's not going to stop, Ivy. He's going to keep texting. Keep calling. Keep sending flowers and books and whatever else he thinks might bring you back. Not because he feels guilty. Because he can't imagine his life without you."
She walked to the door.
"The question is—can you imagine yours without him?"
She left.
Pickles meowed.
I didn't have an answer.
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On day seven, I finally called him.
He answered on the first ring.
"Ivy."
"Adrian."
Silence. Then: "Are you okay?"
"I'm fine. Pickles misses you."
"What about you?"
I looked at the wildflowers. At the paperback. At the ring in my sock drawer.
"I miss you too," I said quietly.
"Then come home."
"I don't know if I can."
"Why not?"
Because I was scared. Because I didn't trust it. Because every time something good happened in my life, it fell apart, and Adrian Wolfe was the best thing that had ever happened to me, and I couldn't survive losing him.
"Because I'm broken," I said.
"You're not broken."
"I am. I'm broken and scared and I don't know how to let someone love me without waiting for the other shoe to drop."
Adrian was quiet for a long time.
Then: "I'm not a shoe, Ivy. I'm not going to drop. I'm just going to keep standing here, waiting for you to come back."
"What if I can't?"
"Then I'll wait longer."
"That's not fair to you."
"I don't care about fair. I care about you."
I closed my eyes. Pressed the phone tighter to my ear.
"I need more time," I said.
"Then take it."
"Stop sending flowers."
"No."
"Adrian—"
"I'll send flowers every day if I want to. I'll send books. I'll send cat toys. I'll send whatever it takes to remind you that you're loved."
I laughed. It came out wet.
"You're impossible."
"So I've been told."
"I love you."
"I know," he said. "I love you too. Now go feed your cat."
He hung up.
I sat on the floor. Pickles climbed into my lap. And for the first time in seven days, I cried—not because I was sad, but because someone loved me enough to wait.
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- Writer
