Page 32 of A Love That Saved Us

My smile fades a little when I meet his eyes.

He gently grips my shoulders. “Hey, you’re grieving, you’re lonely, and you still love him.”

I nod, my voice barely a whisper. “I do.”

“You’re going to be okay.” He smiles, then he nods toward the curb. “Come on. Your Uber’s here.” He opens the door, and I slide into the backseat. “Text me when you get home.”

He shuts the door, and I lean back, letting my head rest against the seat.

I toy with my wedding ring, thoughts spinning and blurring. Tonight was… a lot.

Shit.I remember the text I sent, and panic flutters in my chest.Did I act too quickly? Do I really mean it?

Are we… over?

I take a deep breath, a quiet surrender. I made a decision. I texted him. It’s done.

It’s like Leo said, I don’t want to be the sixteen-year-old drunk at the party. And I sure as hell don’t want to be the thirty-two-year-old still acting like her.

I want more than this. I want to move on. And I can’t if I keep hovering in the space between before and after. It’s not good—for anyone.

I glance down at my hand, remembering the moment Jensen slid this ring onto my finger and how happy I was.

A fresh wave of tears blurs my vision.

The proposal.

The football game.

His love for me.

Mine for him.

I twist the ring slowly, hesitating—not because I still believe in us, but because it feels like the last piece of me that belonged to him. The final thread.

I slide it off, the metal cold in my palm, heavy with everything we were. Everything we lost.

I close my fingers around it. And through the blur of tears, I whisper to myself, “I love you.”

Goodbye, Jensen.

Chapter Eight

JENSEN

I throwmy arms up in frustration and glance over at Matt.

“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” he mutters, gripping his hair with one hand. “How did he miss that pass?”

“Who fucking knows. He can’t catch a ball tonight to save his life.”

It’s Monday Night Football—something Matt and I have done for as long as I can remember. It’s one of my favorite pastimes.

Matt stands. “I’m grabbing a beer. You want another one of those?” he asks, gesturing to my sparkling water like I’m dying to have another one.

“Nah, I’m good.”

We’re at his place, where the fridge is always stocked with beer and the liquor cabinet makes what I had look like child’s play. But I’m fine. Surprisingly fine. It’s been easier than I expected, just shooting the shit and watching football, completely sober. It almost feels like old times. Only now, it’s not quite the same. We’re missing someone—a beautiful blonde in my jersey, curled up and cheering beside me.