Page 76 of Playing Her Game

The answer is so quiet that I almost miss it.

She turns her glass in her hands.

“I take trips. I make plans. I find reasons to be somewhere else. I tell myself I'm giving him space, that he has his career and his life and doesn't need me hovering over him. And some of that is true. I don't want to be the woman who expects a man to account for every hour of his day.”

“That's fair.”

“Except it isn't the whole truth.” She looks at me. “Sometimes I leave because I don't want to be there when he disappoints me.”

I don't answer.

“If I'm somewhere else, I can pretend I'm being sensible. Independent. Giving him room to breathe. But the truth is, if I'm far enough away, I don't have to watch it happen. I don't have to see his face when he decides he wants something different. I don't have to sit in front of him and realize that I trusted him and he still hurt me.”

Her mouth twists.

“And the truly ridiculous part is that sometimes I catch myself waiting for it. Waiting for him to do something wrong so I can tell myself I was right not to trust him in the first place.”

“Bernie…”

“I know.” She shakes her head. “I know how that sounds.”

“It sounds like you're afraid.”

“I'm terrified.”

She says it without a joke, without trying to soften the admission.

“I've already had one relationship turn my private life into public property. I know what it feels like to have people looking at you, waiting for the next development, deciding what your pain means. I don't want to go through that again. I don't want to give anyone that much of me.”

“You don't have to.”

“No. I don't.” She meets my eyes. “But Hank isn't my ex. And I know that. I know I can't make him pay for what someone else did. I know it's unfair to keep moving away from him and then wonder whether he'll come after me.” She exhales, looking down at her hands. “I want him to prove he won't hurt me, but I keep putting myself somewhere he can't reach me. How is he supposed to do that?”

I don't have an answer. Not one I’d feel fair giving her.

“Do you think you're trying to protect yourself,” I ask, “or trying to make sure you're never surprised?”

She goes very still, then she laughs once, without humor. “God, I hate you.”

I grin. “You asked me to listen.”

“I did. A terrible decision.”

But she is smiling now, and there is relief in it, too. Sometimes having someone name the thing you've been avoiding is its own kind of mercy.

“I think,” she says slowly, “that I want to know how it ends before I'm willing to let myself enjoy the middle.”

I look down at my champagne. I understand that more than I want to admit.

“I don't know what will happen with Rez,” I say. “I don't know if he'll call when he says he will, or whether six days will mean as much to him as they do to me. I don't know if our lives make any sense together once the excitement wears off and we're back where we belong.”

Bernie listens without interrupting.

“But I don't regret it,” I continue. “I don't regret him. I don't want to spend the next month convincing myself it was foolish just because I can't promise myself a happy ending.”

“Good.”

“Good?”