Tears fell from the outer corners of my eyes, down my temples, dripping to my pillowcase with a tiny thud. With my arm resting on my forehead, my eyes closed, I tried to push it from my mind, but the fear tore a hole, and it just kept getting bigger.

I looked over at my alarm clock, the red numbers glowing 4:15 a.m. Just as I reached for my phone, it pinged several times in a row. I scrambled to grab it from the nightstand.

It’s the fifth day of this bullshit im in San Diego and maaybe you’re right.

Maybe a hundred ducking years from now I’ll feel fucked out of having a family and wish i had a sun to play ball with and maybe ill want grandkids maybe I don’t deserve you anyway

Maybe I’m just drunk

Fuck it. Fuck all of this. I love you and ive done everything I’m supposed to until now and I’m further from you than ive been since we met. That’s isnt my fault.

I typed out a dozen different responses, but I knew he’d been drinking, and he was upset. Trying to reason with him or even apologize wouldn’t get me very far, and it might even make things worse. Putting down the phone was the hardest thing I’d done in six years.

For the second time that week, I cursed myself, “I fucking hate you.” I covered my eyes.

Just a few hours later, I rolled out of bed, washed my face, brushed my teeth. Then I got dressed before descending the stairs eleven minutes later. I pulled my hair into a messy bun, only to walk back up to get my apron.

I dragged ass all morning, as expected. I was mostly exhausted but also devastated that my intent was lost in the misery we were both in. Still, I had started this mess, and I wasn’t about to waffle until Taylor could make the decision for himself.

Just after the breakfast rush, my phone buzzed in my apron. I rushed around the bar to check it, knowing it was Taylor.

Day Five. Please respond. I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry about last night. I guess technically it was this morning. I’m sitting here in the airport. Just got off the phone with Dad. He made a lot of good points that I need to talk to you about. I’ll be in Eakins by tonight. Please go to St. Thomas. I’ll sleep on the floor if you want. My head is pounding, and I feel like shit, but I wish I felt worse even though I couldn’t feel much worse. I want to see you and hold you so bad I’m going nuts. All I can think about is seeing you. No, don’t respond. I’m afraid of what you’ll say. Just please be there.