Chapter 2: I Thought I Could Love You

Emma's POV

The doorbell rings on the fourth morning. I think it's a delivery. I walk over and open the door.

Adam is standing there. He looks exhausted. Unshaven. Bloodshot eyes. But he's wearing a pressed shirt and dress pants, like he's made some kind of important decision.

"Can I come in?"

I step aside. He walks in and looks around the living room. The cake is still on the table, completely dried out now. It looks pathetic.

"Emma." He says my name. "I've been thinking."

My heart sinks. I can tell from his tone already.

"Sit down," I say.

"No." He shakes his head. "I'll stand."

I stand too. Keep my distance.

"We should end this," he says. Just like that. No buildup. No cushioning. "It's better for both of us. I've been thinking a lot these past few days. I thought I'd moved on. Thought time would help me forget. But I realized..." He pauses. "I still love Sarah."

The room goes quiet. I can hear the refrigerator humming. Someone laughing downstairs.

"So," I hear myself say. "What were these three years?"

"Emma—"

"Was I your recovery period? A transition while you got over Sarah?"

"That's not—"

"Then what?"

He rubs his temples. "I thought I could love you," he says. "I really thought I could. You're amazing, Emma. You're talented, independent—"

"But I'm not her."

He goes silent.

I take a deep breath. "Okay."

"Okay?"

"Leave. Now."

"Emma, if you want me to explain more, I can—"

"I don't need more." My voice is steady. "You love her. You don't love me. Simple enough."

"It's not that I don't love you, it's—"

"What? You don't love me enough?"

Silence again.

"Go," I say. "I need to pack."

"Pack?"

"This is your apartment. I can't stay here."

"You can keep living—"

"I don't want to."

"Emma—"

"Is there anything else you need to say?"

He looks at me like he has a thousand words stuck in his throat. But nothing comes out. "I'm sorry," he finally says.

"I know."

"I really am."

"Yeah."

He turns. Walks to the door. Stops.

"If you need anything—"

"I won't." I cut him off. "Just go."

The door closes. I stand there. Count to ten. Then I walk into the bedroom and start packing.

I give myself one hour. Sketches first. All of them go into my portfolio case. That's what matters most. Clothes next. Just the everyday stuff. The expensive dresses stay. The jewelry he gave me stays. Sketchbooks. Pens. A few photos. I stare at one of us on the Brooklyn Bridge from last spring. After a long moment, I slip it into my bag anyway. Everything else can stay. The fancy dishes. The decorative pieces. All the things we picked out together. I leave it all behind.

Exactly one hour later, I'm dragging my suitcase to the elevator. It's slow. I watch the floor numbers tick down. 12... 11... 10... Each one feels like a memory peeling away. When the doors open on the ground floor, Adam is in the lobby. Leaning against the wall. Holding a piece of paper.

"What's that?"

"A check." He holds it out. "As... compensation."

I glance at it. Six figures.

"I don't need it."

"Emma, after three years—"

"We weren't a transaction." I take the check from him. Tear it in half. Then in half again. The pieces flutter to the floor.

"Anything else?"

He stares at the torn paper. "The birthday gift you made for me. Can I—"

"No." I cut him off. "I'll deal with it."

"Goodbye, Adam." I push through the front door into the rain. Open my car door. Throw my luggage in the back seat.

"Emma!" He's followed me out, standing in the rain.

I start the engine and drive away. I don't look back.

I don't know where I'm going. I just drive. Out of Manhattan. Over the bridge. Into New Jersey. Rain keeps falling. Wipers going back and forth. I should find somewhere to stay. But I don't want to stop. As long as I'm driving, I don't have to think. Don't have to feel.

The highway is crowded. Everyone rushing somewhere. They all have destinations. I don't.

By the time darkness falls, the rain has stopped. I pull into a roadside diner. The neon sign flickers: "Welcome Diner." Inside it's warm. Smells like coffee and fried food.

"Sit anywhere," the waitress says.

I take a corner booth.

"What can I get you?"

"Coffee."

"Food?"

"No thanks."

When the coffee arrives, it's already lukewarm. I don't drink it. Just stare at the brown liquid. "Need me to heat that up?" the waitress asks as she passes.

"No. Thank you."

I get up and head to the bathroom. The mirror shows a stranger. Tangled hair. Pale face. Swollen eyes. I turn on the tap. Cold water hits my face. Then I start crying. Leaning against the sink. Shoulders shaking. How could he end three years so cruelly? I thought I could hold it together. I did hold it together in front of him. But now, with no one watching, I can fall apart.

Someone knocks. "Anyone in there?"

I wipe my face. "Just a minute." Three deep breaths. I open the door and head back to my booth.

The coffee is stone cold now. I take a sip anyway. Bitter. "Another cup?" the waitress asks.

"No thanks. Just the check."

At the next table, an elderly couple is talking. "Oregon's coast is just beautiful," the woman says.

My hand freezes.

"It really is," the man agrees. "Looking at that ocean just makes you feel peaceful."

"We should go again."

"Maybe next spring."

"Why wait?" The woman laughs. "We're retired. We can go whenever we want."

"You're right."

They keep talking. About the sunrises there. The seafood. The small towns.

I stand up and walk over. "Excuse me."

They look up.

"The Oregon coast you mentioned. Where exactly?"

The woman smiles. "There are lots of little towns along the Pacific. The one we went to, oh, I can't remember the name, but it was so healing."

"Yeah," the man adds. "When you've got something weighing on you, just looking at the ocean helps. The sea has seen everything. It accepts everything."

"Thank you."

I pay my bill and walk out to the parking lot. Pull out my phone and open the map. Oregon. Distance: 2,850 miles. Estimated time: 42 hours. I stare at those numbers. Then I get in the car. Start the engine. And begin to drive.