Not just wrong about the argument, wrong about what I accused you of. You weren't overstepping. You were doing what you always do, which is stand next to me when things are hard. And I called it control because I was scared and that's not fair to you. He heard her breathe.
I need to ask you something, he said. And I need you to be honest with me the same way you've been asking me to be honest with you. "Okay." When I walked away Friday, were you done? Is this?
He stopped. ""Are we still doing this?"" Her voice when she answered was steady, but underneath the steadiness, there was something he recognized as effort. "I'm not done," she said. ""I was angry. I'm still a little angry. But I'm not done."" He exhaled. "I'm going to call off the second job idea," he said. ""Not because you told me to.
Because you were right about why I was doing it."" ""Okay." And I need to I'm going to try to get better at receiving help." I know I keep saying that. And then not doing it. But I mean it this time.
I'm aware that I keep meaning it and then not doing it, which is its own problem. "I know," she said. "I'm aware you're aware." A pause and something shifted in her voice. Not quite amusement, but adjacent.
You're the most self-aware man I've ever met, who also somehow manages to keep doing the exact thing he's self-aware about. That's a diplomatic way of saying I'm very good at understanding my dysfunction without fixing it. That's exactly what it means. "Yes." He almost laughed.
It wasn't a full laugh, but it was real. "Can I come over?" He said., I don't want to do this on the phone. A beat. "Yes," she said.
He drove to her apartment, which was on the north side of the West End, a second floor unit in a building she had lived in for answers. He had been to this apartment more times than he could count. He knew the parking situation, knew which step on the front staircase creaked, knew she kept her extra key above the door frame, even though he had told her twice that was not a secure hiding spot. He knocked. She opened the door.
She was in sweats and socks, her hair up, a mug in her hand, and she looked like herself. Not the version of herself she wore to the office or the board meetings or the community events, but the version he had been seeing more of over the past 3 weeks, the version that existed when the presentation was off. He walked in. He did not sit down. He stood in the middle of her living room and looked at her and said, ""I don't fear loving you."" She went still.