"I do... I... don't know." She pulls me closer, holding me tighter.
"But I do, Ally. When I look at you, I see forever. I see our wedding day. Our honeymoon. I see us getting old and crotchety and bemoaning the kids and their terrible taste in TV." My stomach drops. This is terrible. It's awful. But it's what I have to do. "When you look at me, you see demands. You see pain. You see how miserable you've been."
"That's not true," she says.
"It's okay," I say. I absorb everything I can about this moment--the smell of her hair, the softness of her skin, the feeling of her body against mine. "You've spared my feelings for long enough."
She chokes back another sob. I hate making her feel like this, but it will only hurt worse if I delay it any more.
"So that's it? Engagement's off, I'm moving out? Everything is over?"
"You're miserable with me."
She breaks our embrace and moves back. Her arms tighten around her chest and she looks into my eyes. It's angry. "Don't pin this on me. That's a cowardly move."
I clench my fists. "Fine. This is all me, all what I want. I love you so much, Alyssa. When I'm with you, I feel like my heart could burst. The air is sweeter, the food tastes better. It's like I can hear music playing. When you're happy, I'm so happy I could die. But when you're miserable, when I know I caused you all this pain, I can't take it."
A tear rolls down her cheek. I want to go to her, to hold her, to kiss all that pain away. But I have to be strong here. Strong for both of us.
"I still remember seeing you with Ryan, thinking how tragic it was that someone so smart and sure of herself was willing to settle for someone who didn't make her happy. And I wanted so much to convince you that you deserved better. And now, here I am. I'm the asshole fiancé who isn't making you happy. And I can't live with that."
"But you're not... you're nothing like him."
"I'm not going to tell you how you feel," I say. "But I can't be with you unless I'm making you happy." I look at her, into those clear, blue eyes. "Are you happy?"
She shakes her head. "I don't know."
"That won't do."
There's a long silence. The waves roll onto the beach, a slow, steady rhythm. They'll be there, rolling in and out, forever.
A warm breeze passes over me, pressing my T-shirt against my skin.
This will hurt a little less tomorrow. She'll hurt a little less tomorrow.
"I should get to decide who makes me happy," she says. It's barely a protest, but it's something.
"You do," I say. "But so do I. And I can't be with you like this--with the two of us three thousand miles apart no matter how close together we are."
A tear rolls down her cheek. I tell myself not to hold her, not to stroke her hair, not to do something to ease the agony she's feeling in this moment.
But I can't. I take her into my arms, holding her tightly, soaking in the warmth of her body.
"I don't want to put any more demands on you," I say. "But I can't keep fighting all your defenses. If talking to me really makes you this miserable..."
She squeezes me. "If you're breaking up with me, do it. I can't take this uncertainty."
She's right. I can't put this back on her. I have to pull the Band-Aide off.
"Then I'm breaking up with you."
She chokes back a sob. Her fingers dig into my shirt as she squeezes me tighter and tighter.
I want to take it back. I want to tell her I changed my mind, that I'll do whatever she says, be whatever she wants. I love her so damn much. Who's to say it isn't better this way? Who's to say that she isn't happy with me? But that's all bullshit.
She doesn't want to be my wife. She doesn't even want to tell me how she feels.
I hold Alyssa for what seems like forever. Her sobs fade to gentle cries, to choppy breaths, to slow, steady inhalations. She doesn't protest.