Broken Rules

Chapter Forty One

The next couple of weeks rush past in a blur.

Wells's apartment becomes a shell of its former self, with moving boxes strewn all over the place as the furniture found new homes or was safely tucked and packed away, leaving just a lone mattress behind. The space was just as I had imagined. Wells in every nook and cranny. Warm wood browns, creamy whites, and forest greens– like the color of his eyes. Everything neatly put together, books scattered around, coffee knickknacks strewn about.

I continually caught myself daydreaming—imagining what it would have been like if he had chosen to stay here. Picturing the idea of writing books on his couch, Wells sitting next to me, his laptop in front of him, busy with writing his articles. I dreamt about having everything, all at once.

And then, something would happen where I'd be forcefully reminded that I can't have any of it. He'd mention New York or ask me if I thought he should take his desk. He'd bring up cookies from Levain Bakery, insisting I'd love them. And suddenly, it would all come crashing down, and it felt like I was losing him all over again.

I have him, but not entirely, not in the way I want him.

And despite the shrinking space and the time dwindling away, I managed. I helped pack and box up everything. Our nights always ended late, finding us in the middle of the room, on the lone mattress with our clothes scattered across the room. He whispered sweet things in my ear, telling me how much he loved me.

When Wells and I were together, we didn't hold back. We gave in to every fleeting moment, but I didn't talk about the future. There's a certain fear in the unknown – envisioning lives in entirely different places, with different people, different experiences. And I'm not ready for it. I'm not ready to let him go. I don't want him to go. I'll never be ready for it.

But, asking him to stay just for me is out of the question, especially considering The New York Times. I couldn't bear the idea of him harboring resentment towards me for asking him to choose me over The New York Times. So, I remain silent. I hold my tongue, and instead, we talk about visiting each other—him for Christmas, me for Valentine's Day.

And I hate it. I hate the lengthy gaps between those dates. Not to mention that we promised each other space for the initial few months, as Wells suggested. The plan is to reassess later after we are settled, but I don't need a reassessment; I already know I want him. But maybe that's what he needs.

The Subaru's door closes with a thud, jolting me from my thoughts as he places the final box inside and then turns to meet my gaze.

I muster a weak smile, but he sees right through it. Cupping my face with his hands, he reassures me, "Three months, Juniper, and I'll be back for Christmas."

"Three months is a long time." It's enough time for someone to break up with a boyfriend and fall in love with someone else.

He gently thumbs away a tear, one I hadn't even realized was there. "It will go by quick, I promise."

My heart quickens, and my body seems on the brink of unraveling. There's an impulse to urge to tell him not to leave, to tell him to stay here with me. And I know that if I ask, he'd stay; if I asked, he would, at the very least, consider it.

"Wells—," I begin, stopping myself from saying more because I love him enough to not ask him to stay.

There's a long silence. His throat moves as he swallows, and his voice emerges in a hoarse whisper. "I know."

He holds me tightly, and I clutch his shirt at his sides. It almost hurts, being held by him like this, knowing he's going to leave me. And I'm scared. I'm scared to let go of even all this pretending we've done, fearing the moment he goes all of this will vanish with him.

Three months feel like an eternity; so much can change. He might change his mind about me or find someone else, he might not want to come back and visit me here. So, I cling to him for as long as he allows me.

"We're going to be okay, Juniper," he whispers against my temple, his hands easing their grip around me. "Everything will be okay."

"Promise to at least send me a text when you get there?" I ask, wiping a tear with my sleeve while his hand runs up and down my back.

He leans in, planting a tender kiss on the base of my neck, along the curve of my jaw, and finally, on my lips. My eyes flutter closed in response.

"I promise," he whispers, gently pulling away, finally releasing me completely. It feels like bits and pieces of me are going with him—the crucial pieces, the ones I'm not so sure I can live without.

When I open my eyes, he's already opening the door to his car. Pausing, he turns around to look at me and says, "I love you, Juniper."

"I love you too, Wells," I whisper, pushing past the fist-sized lump in my throat.

He climbs into his car, starts it, and drives off. I watch until I can't see his car anymore, until he disappears completely.

And he's gone.