“Ryan, I’m sorry—” I peer up at him, then, wishing I could lay it all out for him right then and there, but a sharp shake of his head stops me. Dianne had urged me to tell him exactly what happened five years ago, to make him understand what pressure I was under, exactly what I had lost, and clear the air. Maybe she was right about that, and now feels like as good a time as any. Not that I want to hurt him even more, but if it could just tell him…

“Water under the bridge,” he says before I can work up the courage to continue. He sounds choked up, so I stuff everything back into the box in my heart and close the lid. Lock it shut. Throw away the key. I certainly don’t want to cause more damage than I already have by opening up old wounds. What does it matter now anyway?

This isn’t permanent.

He continues lathering my hair in silence for a few minutes before telling me to rinse. I dunk my head again, and this time it does feel a bit more like a cleansing, if not a full baptism.

“Are you okay to get out by yourself?” he asks, sitting back on his heels and rolling the sleeves of his sweater down.

Unable to speak, I simply nod. He leaves the room. When the door snicks softly shut behind him, the sound reverberates through my brain. It feels final somehow, like he’s shutting the door on us. Like this was some kind of goodbye.

Trina said I was dumb, but right now I don’t know what’s the worse decision: Asking him to stay like I so desperately want to or letting him think I don’t want him to be my editor and watching him walk out of my life. Again. But I do know that having him here feels good, and I’m willing to follow that feeling, even if chasing any kind of true happiness is futile.

But the finality of that shutting door makes me afraid he’s on his way out of my apartment. I scramble out of the tub and throw my robe around my shoulders. I tie it quickly but don’t bother drying off. It sticks uncomfortably to me. Water pools at my feet and drips off the ends of my hair. I step carefully on the wet tile to pull the bathroom door open in a rush.

Ryan is sitting on my couch, one ankle crossed over his knee and his arm spread out over the back of it like he belongs there. And that’s when I realize that I really do want him here. Maybe just tonight, maybe forever. I don’t know. I can cross that bridge when I come to it.