From whatever this is right now, he repeated. What do you think this is right now? She asked. He thought about it. She had noticed over months of talking to him that he always actually thought about questions like this rather than reaching for the comfortable answer.
It was one of the things that had undone her slowly over 2 years. I think he said this is two people who took the long way to each other and aren't willing to let that be the permanent condition. He paused. I think 12 months is a long time. And I think the fact that we've done six and it didn't break us means something.
Another pause. And I think if I say no, I become the man on your porch in the red dress story. The man who loved you the wrong way. She was very still. So yes, he said.
I'll hold. She exhaled. Not with relief. Not the relief of someone who was surprised. The exhale of someone who had needed to hear something true.
Said out loud and had been given it. Thank you, she said. Don't thank me. He shifted in his chair to look at her more directly. But Claire, something has to change.
What? The way we're doing this. He was careful but clear. The calls are good. The texts are good, but I need I need real time.
Not because I'm keeping score because this He gestured between them just slightly. A simple gesture. This needs actual time to grow and it can't all happen over the phone. I said, "New York, I want you to come. I'll come," he said.
"And I want you here, not just for weekends. I want," He stopped, reconsidered his words. "I want you to want to come home. Not just because I'm here, because Atlanta is yours, too. Because this neighborhood in this porch and Maya doing her homework at the kitchen table on Saturday mornings, that's yours.
I want you to feel that. " She looked at him. "I do feel it. Every time I leave, I feel it. " Then that's the thing we hold on to, he said. The feeling doesn't leave just because you do. She set down her tea, looked at the street.