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He invites me over for dinner that night; I tell him I can’t miss yoga.

I do go to yoga, but I spend half of the class in child’s pose forcing myself to breathe.

Sunday, I skip church, the first time in our months together, telling him I have to help my dad.

Lying.

Every day that passes the next week makes a brand-new truth crystalize: I have to end it with him.

A lifetime spent trying to make the right choices so I could live just a little bit longer, missing out on big experiences to protect everyone involved. Maintaining order—predictability—so that whatever was coming around the bend would never be a surprise. I’d always be ready.

Yet here I stand in my sweat-soaked gym clothes, staring at my beloved grocery store on Friday night, wrecked. All my rules and order never once prepared me for the plot twist that was actually waiting around the bend.

I love Bo but can’t tell him that the woman he looks at like his mother is dying. It’s cruel.

I pull a cart out of the line as I walk in, irrationally annoyed by the fact it has a squeaky wheel. Waving feebly to Monica, I head toward the produce.

When I get there, I just stare. Nothing makes sense. Being with Bo, avoiding Bo—both options make me ache.

“You planning on buying anything, or are you just going to stare at those tomatoes all night, Pam Beesly?”

I freeze.

Bo.

He doesn’t wait for me to answer before reaching his hand to my face and gripping my cheeks with his thumb and forefinger, squeezing slightly so my lips pout like a fish. He tilts my chin, forcing my eyes to meet his. “Wanna tell me what the hell is goingon with you?” he asks, a harshness in his voice that isn’t normally there along with a deep crease between his eyebrows.

His dark hair, usually tucked back behind his ears, falls forward over his face. It takes all I have not to brush it to the side.

I sigh through my puckered lips, sadness and panic swirling in my belly. Instantly, my throat clogs, eyes burn, heart fractures.

He must see because his face softens along with his grip on my cheeks.

“Hey,” he says, dropping his hand from my face and pulling me into a hug—a touch I didn’t know I needed until he gave it. “What happened?”

My nose smooshed against his chest I breathe in his Bo Mountain Breeze. I’ve missed him—I realize now how much.

I push myself off his chest, lift my chin to face him and swallow back the tears I don’t want to cry.

One breath.

Two.

“This isn’t working,” I say quietly.

His eyebrows pinch. “What isn’t?”

Three heartbeats, then: “Us.”

He takes a step back. “What? Birdie, what’s going on here?”

I shake my head, guilt dragging my gaze to the floor. “It’s not fair to you, Bo. If I get sick…” I lift my eyes to his face—etched in confusion—and blink away, focusing on a basket of oranges.

“Birdie, I already said tha—”

“I heard what you said,” I snap, squaring my shoulders to him. Damn him for making this harder than it has to be. “And that’spart of the problem, you don’t listen to me,” I lie. Again. Because that’s what I do now. The truth is, if anyone has ever listened to me in this life, it’s him. “You think I need all these changes—that my life had no meaning before you. Well, you’re wrong, Bo. I was just fine and then—then—then—then you show up and think I’m some sad puppy that needs to be rescued. But I’m not. I miss how things were. It was easier, and—and—and I’ve lost focus on what’s important.”

When I finally look at him, his jaw is tight, clenching repeatedly. He pulls the toothpick from his mouth and snaps it in half before shoving it into his pocket. After an eternity, he nods slowly, looking around the bins of fruits and vegetables.