The Fortunate Ones

“Brooke,” he says with calm emphasis.

His heavy tone is enough to convince me to take him seriously. If he wants to talk here, fine—it’s not like they’re going to fire me—but if he wants to come to the workers’ quarters, I’m going to put him to work.

I push my current set of silverware toward him. “Get to rollin’.”

He steps into the small room and closes the door behind him. The soap opera on the TV plays out in the background. A woman is shouting at a man about sleeping with her business partner. It’s all very dramatic compared to the atmosphere in here.

I peer up at James from beneath my lashes, trying to get a sense of how he feels. Is he upset about what happened the other night? Terrified of losing me?

He remains a few feet from me, studying my face in thoughtful silence. Apparently, we’re both at a loss for words, but I manage to speak first.

“I want to clear the air once and for all,” I say, playing with a stray thread on the linen napkin in my hand. “I didn’t mean to shout at you the way I did the other night. That was…that’s not how I want to conduct myself in the future.”

“You don’t have to apologize,” he replies with quiet solemnity.

If he’s not here to demand an apology and he’s not here to fight, then there’s only one other option.

I shoot to my feet. “James, I really need to—”

He steps forward and cuts me off. “Should I ask you to stay?”

His resolved tone hints that he already knows the answer.

“Please don’t,” I beg with a pleading glance, desperate to end this conversation before it even starts. “I’ve already committed to this. It’s what I want.”

“How long will you be gone?”

I choose complete honesty in my response. “Indefinitely.”

The word is a nail in our coffin. Indefinitely means there’s no point in waiting for me to come back.

He drags his hand through his hair in a stressful tug then turns and paces back and forth in the small space. As the owner of a company, he’s probably used to solving problems and putting out fires. I know his brain is working overtime to come up with a solution for this, but there really isn’t one.

“Foundations like ours don’t really lend themselves to a long-distance thing,” I joke sadly.

“And that’s not what either of us wants,” he says.

No, it’s not. It would be an ill-fated compromise that would only make things worse. How long would James put up with me being in Spain when what he really wants—really needs—is a partner here, now.

“Maybe if…” My voice trails off.

What, Brooke? What could you two be? Pen pals?

“What?” he asks hopefully.

His tone is enough to tear down my calm resolve, because while I can handle us fighting up until the day I leave, I can’t handle his kindness, his ability to bring softness to a situation that really sucks.

He rushes toward me to wipe my cheeks with the pads of his thumbs. “Please don’t cry.”

How can I not?

“Why does this feel like our 100th breakup?” I ask with a pitiful little hiccup.

“Because it is.”

Sadness ripples through me and the tears start coming a little faster.

His admission breaks the floodgates. I’m a blubbering mess thinking about him alone in his house, working long hours, wishing he had someone to come home to at the end of the day.

“Do me a favor, okay? Just forget about me. Move on.”

It’s not that I thought he would ever wait for me, but it bears saying just in case. The thought of him spending another day alone makes my stomach ache and tears burn the backs of my eyes. I want him to find happiness. I want to think of him with a wife and children, completely fulfilled.

He turns his profile to me, narrowing his eyes at some point on the wall beside us. Maybe he’s collecting his thoughts or trying to keep his emotions at bay, but when he finally turns back to me, I can see he wasn’t successful. Big, sorrowful brown eyes implore me to change my mind, to stay for him, and for a moment, I cave.

“This doesn’t feel right,” I whisper.

“I agree.” He pulls me closer so my hips touch his and then he tips my chin up. From this angle, I can see every strand of his dark, sooty lashes, every shade of brown in his eyes. “You should stay.”

“You said you weren’t going to ask me!” I cry.

“Stay.”

Tears cloud my eyes and I wipe at them, angry with myself for not keeping it together. “James.”

His name is a plea. If he keeps asking me to stay, I just might, and I firmly believe it would be the wrong decision. I’d be staying on a sinking ship.

A knock sounds on the break room door, and then Ellie’s voice cuts through our private moment. “Hey, Brooke. Sorry to interrupt, but Brian is looking for you. I think he wants to know where you want him to mail your final paycheck.”