I love him too much to let him go.
He means more to me than anything in the world.
My thoughts are spiraling, my chest tightening as each minute passes. But I continue to stand here, unable to move from this spot, staring a hole into the wood.
“Vins?” Cecilia’s voice is soft as she approaches. “Do you want to talk about it?”
I do, but I’m not sure where to start, so I just nod.
She moves to the couch, curling up with her feet under her in the same place Sly sat just moments ago.
I take the seat I sat in.
“He wants to run away together,” I tell her, almostrobotically. “Run away together or come clean to our families.”
Always the voice of reason, she asks, “What doyouwant?”
“Him,” I croak, my voice raw. “I just wanthim.”
She sits quietly for a few seconds, and I can practically see the wheels in her head turning. “You’ve had him, Vins. Youhavehim. But August spun your world upside down last night and now Sly is asking for you to take a stand and show him your love is worth fighting for.”
Our eyes meet, her words resonating somewhere deep in my soul.
Holding my gaze, she lifts her chin, and reflects the confidence I know she wants me to feel. “Your love is worth fighting for, isn’t it?”
It is—there’s no doubt in my mind.
I love him, and as much as I’ve said it, I know it’s time for me toshowit.
“Ofcourseit is,” I say firmly, wiping the tears from my eyes and sitting up a little straighter.
“Thenfight.”
Her words stop the tears from falling, lifting the cloud from my brain that my sorrow has put there.
She’s right. She’s absolutely right.
Who cares what our families think?
Why am I wasting time on the fear I have that’s ultimately holding me back from true happiness? Ideservehappiness.
AndscrewAugust and whatever game he’s trying to play—I’m not playing it.
It’s time for me to show Sly that I’m going to fight for him. Forus.
Because our love isn’t just worth fighting for.
It’s worth starting awar.
Chapter 34
Sly
“Alright, Mr. O’Neil, your lungs sound good and your vitals are perfect. I think it’s safe to say you’ve beat the pneumonia, and everything else from your physical looks as it should. There’s no need to stress. However, I will prescribe you one last thing before you go.”
“What’s that, Doc?”
The eighty-seven-year-old man sits on my exam table, his feet dangling from the edge as though he’s a small child, looking up at me through the round bifocals sitting on the tip of his nose.
