I jump from the table, run to the sink, and wash the blood off my finger. More crimson pours and the slice hurts. This should feel symbolic, but it mostly feels annoying. Because everything is irksome now.

A man like Flynn Parker came into my life at exactly the moment when I didn’t just need him, I wanted him. He came like a beautiful summer day, like blue skies and sunshine, a walk along the beach, and peaceful easy times. He’s evenings under the stars too, nights spent dancing, laughing, tumbling together and kissing, hot and fevered and sweaty.

Giving myself to Flynn would be easy because he wouldn’t hurt me.

That’s what I let slip through my fingers for a possibility.

But I had to. I had no choice.

I keep running the water, and the blood spills into the sink.

I don’t think Flynn would hurt me like Ray did. I don’t believe he’s like that. I believe he’s a man of his word, a man I can trust, and saying those words to him—we need to stop seeing each other—hurt way more than this sliced finger.

When the blood ceases to flow, I wrap a towel tight around my finger, find a Band-Aid, and put it on the cut. Giving the sewing a break, I settle back in with the article, review Kevin’s notes, and make my final tweaks. Then I stand and pace like a lion in the zoo. Cross the kitchen. Walk to the futon. Cover the same path again.

I draw a deep breath and scan my little place. The walls seem to hover, to sway. This apartment is suddenly too tiny. It can’t contain me and all these rampant emotions pinballing through my chest.

I call Kevin and tell him I’m taking the next train to come see him.

A couple hours later, the train rattles into the station in the sleepy little New England town where he goes to divinity school. He meets me at the depot, and his smile is magnetic. It hits me in a raw, visceral way. I throw my arms around him, and he hugs me.

A strange relief works its way into me as we reconnect. He’s my person. I needed to see him. I desperately need to talk to him. I can’t stand trying to sort out all these feelings on my own.

We leave the station and head into town where we settle in at a café and order tea.

He slides my cup toward me. “It must be good if you came all the way out here to see me.”

I heave a painful sigh, emotions clogging my throat. “Tell me what to do. Tell me what’s the right thing to do.”

He leans back in his chair, parking his hands behind his head. “It’s the guy, isn’t it?”

I give him more details. “I know I won’t get the job if I’m seeing him. I can’t cover his sector if I’m involved with him. Who would give that gig to me? That’s crazy. It’s one thing to disclose at the end of a story that you’re involved with somebody, the way a publication would disclose you own stock. Jane Smith has stock in Company X. Jane Smith is in a romantic relationship with Fred Jones. It’s another thing to assign someone to cover an industry on an ongoing basis when their boyfriend or girlfriend is a key player.”