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“I’m going to kill you,” I state, hands on my hips. “I wouldn’t,” a voice says behind me. “Recycling bin homicide carries a life sentence in Portland.”
“What would it cost you to do nothing?”
“But it’s not as natural for us to think about the risks associated with not changing. What are you missing out on if you don’t take the job or move across the country? What are you missing out on, Claireful, if you don’t get out of a relationship you know isn’t working for you?”
“I’m about to be intensely forward,” I warn him. Connor’s eyes light up. “The answer is yes.”
Taking his hand feels like the riskiest thing I’ve done in years and somehow also the safest.
I’m so used to thinking of the word careful in how it relates to the way I view the world, historically—with caution, aware of every angle of risk. I never thought of it the way Connor means right now: to literally be full of care. To be thoughtful and attentive. Diligent.
“Why’d it take you so long to get to me, Claire Ashford?” he murmurs, pushing a strand of damp hair off my cheek. My heart soars into my throat. “I could ask you the same thing.”
“And holy shit am I glad I got to be the last few pages in your Portland chapter.”
I think I would fall in love with him if we had the time. It’s scary to know that and still walk away from it.
His mouth on mine is the period at the end of that sentence, but it also feels the beginning of some sort of promise.
