22. Freya

Itake a breath and press my finger to the doorbell. Before the chime has even faded, Jackson's there opening the door for me. "Hey," he says, wrapping his arms around me as he pulls me into the house.

"You're in an unusually good mood," I say.

"Am I not allowed to be happy to see you?" he says, his smile dropping into a more standard frown.

"Did I say that?" I snap, then feeling mean, try to soften. "I'm pleased to see you too."

He guides me to the kitchen, kisses me on the lips, and sits me down. "Pierre has an awesome surprise for us tonight. He's made his world-famous Bolognese."

"Is it really world-famous or are you just saying that?"

He seems to contemplate this for a second, then breaks back into a smile, which makes me smile too. I love to see him happy like this. It makes all it even harder, knowing what I want to say next. "All right, maybe it's just famous to me. Doesn't stop it being good, though."

"Of course," I say. "How was your day today?"

"Actually, it was great. You know, our numbers are looking really good this season. I think we might actually make the World Series after all. I nearly threw a nine-straight-outs game the other day."

"Nice," I say, hoping I sound supportive. He dives straight into heavy statistics and tactics, dropping so many terms I'm not even remotely familiar with, so I barely manage to follow what he's saying at all. And bad as it feels to admit, I honestly don't really care about it that much.

I'm trying my best to be a good listener and be there for him, but he doesn't stop monologuing about baseball even as he reheats dinner and sits down next to me. It's only when he takes my hand and I squeeze it that I remember again how good it feels to have him here.

"I had a kid come in today at the hospital," I say, cutting him off. He looks slightly offended, but I keep going. It's the only way he's going to listen to me. "It was an injury pretty similar to yours, actually. An elbow strain from doing too much sport at school, and an attitude like it was the end of the world."

"That's a shame to get an injury so young," says Jackson. "You know, when I was at college playing baseball…" And on and on he continues, going straight back into talking about himself and baseball and baseball and baseball.

I tune out almost completely, feeling kind of bad about it — but my brain is saturated with so many baseball facts. An uncomfortable weight is settling in my stomach that's trying to tell me something I don't want to hear, but know I need to listen.

The fact is, I do love Jackson. I love seeing him happy. I love it when he we're here together and he holds my hand and we watch TV. I love it when we go out and do fun things. I love making him smile — and, better, I love making him laugh.

I know he wants what's good for me too. He's kind and generous, and never stops texting me. But he never asks how I am, either. He never listens to my stories or wants to hear about my day. I can't keep feeling like I'm giving everything to him and he isn't hearing me. I know it's not on purpose, and it would kill him to know he was hurting me, but I can't see a way that he's ever going to change. And I just can't live like this.

He stops for breath, and I interrupt, asking quietly, "Jackson, can we talk?"

"We already are, aren't we?" he says, his brow furrowing.

"Yeah. No, we are, but I mean properly."

His face falls even harder as he realizes what I really mean by that. Artificially lightly, he says, "Oh, okay. Sure. What's up?"

I take both of his hands in mine and squeeze them tightly. The last thing I want to do is cry, but it feels inevitable. "You're a great person, Jackson. You really are."

"Thank you," he says, still seeming confused about where this is going.

Time to put him out of his misery. "I think we have to break up," I say, so quietly that he does a double take, thinking he might have misheard me.

"I — what?" he stammers, and the heartbreak is written all over his face, as easy to read as a picture book. I hate doing this to him. "Why?"

I squeeze his hands and take a tearful breath. "I know you love me, Jackson. You have such a big heart, and you care so much. And that's what makes this so hard. You're a good person."

"But?" he asks, his own voice cracking.

"But… you don't listen. I know you love me and want me, but since you went back to playing… it's like you don't listen to a word I say. Sometimes, when we go out, I feel like I'm just there so you can have someone to talk baseball at."

"You're not," he tries desperately.

I let out a tearful chuckle and shake my head. "I know that's what you think. God, that's why I love you, too. But I can't keep feeling like this. I mean, look at today. You didn't even ask me how I was. Can you honestly sit there and tell me that you feel like you showed any interest in me at all?"

His eyes dart to the ceiling, then to the floor and then back to me, like he's watching the evening in rewind. "I don't know," is the only answer he can give.

"Yeah. That's what I mean. It's just starting to stress me out too much, looking after you like a nurse and not a lover."

He opens his mouth to speak, and I squeeze his hands again, bringing his knuckles to my lips to kiss them. His palms are sweating, his own grip on mine tight, like that might stop me from letting go. "Please don't fight me. I'm tired, and I don't want to fight with you. I don't want to remember us like that. Sometimes, things just don't work, and that can be okay."

"We can work," he says. "I can give you anything you need."

I can't help but smile at that. "Not everything can be fixed by giving. I wish I didn't have to hurt you, and I'm sorry that I am. You've given me so much, and I am grateful for it. But I guess I just needed you to say it a little more often. That you care."

"I do," he whispers. "I do. I love you, Freya."

"I know," I say again, getting to my feet and kissing him on the forehead. "I'm sorry."

A tiny part of me is hoping that he'll jump to his feet now, that he'll rage against the way I'm giving up on us and swear that he'll be better, that he'll listen to everything I have to say and be the wonderful man I know he can be. It's unlikely, of course it is. But for just the tiniest second, there's a look in his eye that makes me believe that just maybe he's willing to fight for me.

And if he's willing to fight that hard, to apologize and recognize the issues, I can forgive him. Forgiving him wouldn't be hard at all. I just need him to show me he can do it.

He stares at me and takes a breath, and my heart leaps into my mouth unbidden. This is it, surely? This is him saving our relationship.

Then he stands up and says, "Okay. If this is what you need, then okay. I guess it's for the best if it's not working."

My mouth drops open, my ears still trying to catch up with the answer they've been given. Sure, I'm pulling the plug on us, but he's rolling over and taking it, too. Maybe I never was that important to him after all.

I need to get out of here before I start wailing.

"I should go," I say, choked, pulling away from him. He's resistant to let me go, our hands burning with the friction between us. It feels like severing a tether, and my hands are too empty, too cold without his.

This is a mistake. Is this a mistake?All I want to do right now is run back into his arms, to be held against his safe chest and to tell him this was some sort of sick joke, that of course we're okay, and I love baseball really, and I don't want to go. But none of this was about wanting to go.

Sometimes things just don't work, and you need to go before you get stuck.

"Bye, Jackson," I say, turning from him so he can't see my tears that I suddenly can't stop from falling.

"See you around," he says, and as I make my exit, I let myself glance back over my shoulder at him. The look on his face, one of complete devastation, is one I'm never going to forget.

I run out of the house as fast as I can, jump into my car, and drive off. I don't know where I'm driving to. I just know I can't go home. And I can never, ever go back to Jackson Kerr.