27. Greg

The intensity of Sam's gaze anchors me in place, making it clear she's not about to let me just walk away from this. I lean in, gently removing her hand from my arm. "Let's go for a walk."

But she resists, her body language telling me she's onto my tactic. My plan to calm her down in the early day breeze along the water flies out the window. I might as well have suggested a trip to the DMV while holding in diarrhea. "No. We can talk right here."

Defeated, I sit back down, my face buried in my hands. "Sam—"

"What do you do for work?" she cuts in.

"I told you I used—" I begin, but she's not asking about my past.

"To be a cop but that's not my question. Why don't you ever talk about it?"

"Because it's complicated," I admit. Everything in my mind is telling me to shift the conversation, avoid the questions, and insist that she does not know. But her jaw is tight, and her shoulders square. She's ready for this fight, even if I'm not nor ever will be. Admitting everything to her is losing her. It's a fact I've known and confirmed the closer we've gotten. Sam doesn't confront things head-on. She runs.

"Who is he, Greg?" There's a hint of fear in her voice now. She moves closer, her hands finding my arms. "I trusted you with everything. Why can't you tell me about this?" Her voice breaks slightly. "Please, just tell me, Greg."

I shake my head, feeling conflicted. When I was younger, I used to have this repetitive dream; doing ballet naked on stage. Yet, I feel more exposed now than when I was trying to pirouette with my dick flopping everywhere. This feels like a pivotal moment. If I come clean, I risk pushing her away for good. But evasion isn't an option either; she's not going to let it go. It's a corner I've backed myself into. Taking a deep breath, I meet her eyes, feeling the weight on my heart. "An FBI agent," I confess quietly. "And I'm pretty sure he's here looking for you."

The color drains from her face, her lips losing their vibrant hue. Without a word, she walks to the surf counter, grabs her purse, and leaves.

Panic sets in as I watch her go. She's going to run; I can feel it. I rush to Tilly, still checking each keg in the back with a clipboard in hand. The room smells like alcohol and sweat and, for some reason, only makes me that much more desperate. "You need to go after her."

Tilly looks at me incredulously. "Uh, no I don't. You pissed her off, you go get her."

I can't accept that. I move in front of her, gripping her shoulders. "Tilly. Just go. She's gonna run away if you don't stop her."

Tilly scoffs. "She wouldn't leave me like that."

But I know better, my frustration boiling over as I give her a small shake. "I don't have time to explain. But she will leave. Go!"

Tilly seems torn, her gaze flickering with uncertainty. Releasing her, I put my hand to my forehead, feeling utterly defeated. "What the fuck did you do?" she asks. There's no anger in her words, and her eyes are searching mine. Hurt and pain linger in them, and I know it's a reflection of everything I'm feeling.

"I lied about my job, and…" My words falter as I pace, the weight of my actions crushing me. "I hurt her." My voice breaks, the guilt and fear mixing into a bitter concoction.

"I'm not your relationship firefighter, Greg. Put out your own goddamn blaze."

I grip my hands into my hair and resist screaming. How does she not get this? "Please, Tilly. I can't…I can't lose her!"

Studying me with narrowed eyes, she takes in my appearance. Apparently, she something in my pathetic gaze that must win her over. Tilly doesn't hesitate any longer. The clipboard is shoved into my chest, landing with a painful thump. She's swiftly heading for the staircase, leaving me alone with my turmoil and the shop to mind.