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ELLIOT

D ecisions should be made with clear heads, not racing hearts.

This has been my mantra since childhood—a guiding principle that served me well through college, career choices, and eventually, the aftermath of my divorce. Emotions cloud judgment. Logic illuminates the path forward.

So why, after three days of meticulous pro-con lists, rational analysis, and careful consideration, does the “logical” decision to take the Seattle job feel so devastatingly wrong?

I stare at the unsigned contract sitting on my kitchen counter, Catherine Porter’s business card beside it. The offer is exceptional—higher salary, creative control, respected company. Seattle is beautiful—temperate climate, vibrant culture. The smart choice is obvious.

Yet here I am at 2 AM, unable to sleep, heart and mind at war.

My phone buzzes with a text. Brody, of course. Who else would text at this hour?

I know you’re still up. Overthinking. Making lists. Second-guessing. Just remember: some decisions can’t be made purely with logic. Some require listening to your heart too.

How does he know me so well after such a short time? It’s unsettling. Comforting. Terrifying.

Go to sleep, Carter. You have practice in the morning.

So do you. Practice choosing happiness over fear.

I set the phone down, his words hitting uncomfortably close to the truth. Is that what I’m doing? Choosing fear over happiness? The accusation stings precisely because it resonates.

But it’s not that simple. It can’t be.

My phone rings, at this hour, it can only be one person.

“It’s 2 AM, Sarah,” I answer without preamble.

“And you’re wide awake, making yourself miserable.” Her voice is clear, not sleep-addled. “Tommy says Brody’s doing the same thing. You two are perfectly matched in your stubborn misery.”

“Did you call just to tell me that?”

“No, I called because I love you, and you’re about to make the biggest mistake of your life.” The directness is pure Sarah—no softening, no hedging. “Running to Seattle won’t solve anything. Jason will still exist. Your feelings for Brody won’t magically disappear. You’ll just be alone and multiple states away.”

“I’m protecting Brody’s career,” I say, the justification sounding hollow even to my own ears.

“Bullshit.” Sarah doesn’t bother with gentle reassurance. “You’re protecting yourself. From vulnerability. From the possibility of getting hurt again. From actually being happy with someone who adores you.”

“That’s not?—”

“It is,” she interrupts. “And you know it. Jason did a number on you, Elle. Made you believe you weren’t worthy of love, that you were somehow deficient. And now you’ve found someone who thinks you’re incredible exactly as you are, and you’re running scared.”

Tears prick at my eyes, unwelcome and revealing. “It’s more complicated than that.”

“Is it?” Sarah’s tone softens slightly. “Because from where I’m sitting, it looks pretty simple. You’re in love with Brody. He’s in love with you. Jason is a vindictive ass who wants to control you even three years after your divorce. The only question is: who are you going to let win? Your fear or your heart?”

After she hangs up, her words echo in the quiet of my kitchen. Who indeed?

I pick up the contract again, scanning its professional language, its promises of career advancement and financial security. Then I reach for my phone, scrolling through recent texts from Brody.

Saw a woman correcting someone’s grammar at the grocery store today and immediately thought of you. The power of proper semicolon usage is sexy.

Jensen says my defensive positioning has improved since I started dating you. Apparently the fear of grammatical correction has made me more disciplined in all areas of life.

I missed you today. Just wanted you to know that.

Simple messages. Honest affection. The kind of genuine connection I’d convinced myself didn’t exist after Jason’s calculated manipulation and eventual betrayal.

Is Sarah right? Am I running from happiness because I’m afraid to be vulnerable again?

The answer comes with uncomfortable clarity: Yes. Absolutely yes.

But that doesn’t change the reality of Jason’s threats. Doesn’t erase the genuine danger to Brody’s career. Doesn’t negate the substantial age gap that will only become more pronounced with time.

By morning, I’ve made my decision. The logical decision. The safe decision. The one that protects Brody, advances my career, and shields my heart from potential devastation.

I sign the Seattle contract.

* * *

Telling Brody is the hardest thing I’ve ever done.

We meet at a neutral location—a quiet coffee shop downtown, away from our neighboring townhouses where too many emotions linger. He’s already there when I arrive, two cups on the table, his smile fading as he registers my expression.

“You’ve decided,” he says as I sit across from him. Not a question.

I nod, forcing myself to meet his eyes. “I’m taking the Seattle job.”

The flash of pain across his face is quickly controlled, replaced by careful neutrality. “I see.”

“It’s the right decision, Brody.” The rehearsed explanation comes automatically. “The job is perfect for me—more responsibility, better pay, prestigious company. And Seattle is beautiful. I visited once years ago and loved it.”

“And us?” His voice is steady, but his fingers tighten around his coffee cup. “Where do we fit in this perfect decision?”

The practiced answer sticks in my throat. “Long distance rarely works even for established couples. For something as new as this...” I trail off, leaving the implication hanging.

“So that’s it? You’re just ending things?” A flash of anger breaks through his composure. “After everything we’ve talked about, everything we’ve shared?”

“It’s the logical choice,” I insist, clinging to rationality like a lifeline. “The age gap was always going to be an issue eventually. Nine years isn’t nothing, Brody. And your career?—”

“Don’t.” He cuts me off, voice low but intense. “Don’t use my career as an excuse. We both know Jason’s threats are part of this, but they’re not the whole story.”

“They’re enough,” I counter. “I’ve seen what he can do when he feels slighted. I won’t be responsible for destroying everything you’ve worked for.”

“So instead you’ll destroy what we could have together?” He leans forward, eyes searching mine. “Elliot, please. I meant what I said before. I love you. We can figure this out. The job, the distance, Jason—none of it is insurmountable if we face it together.”

The raw sincerity in his voice makes my chest ache. Three words echo in my mind: I love you . Words Jason said frequently but never meant. Words I’d stopped believing held any real weight.

Until Brody.

“I care about you too much to let you sacrifice your career,” I say carefully, avoiding the L-word deliberately. “This is for the best. A clean break.”

“Bullshit.” The word is sharp, surprising us both. “You’re scared. Not of Jason or age gaps or career complications. You’re scared of this—of us, of how real it is.”

His accuracy lands like a physical blow. “That’s not?—”

“It is.” His intensity pins me in place. “Jason hurt you. Deeply, repeatedly. He made you doubt yourself, question your worth, your desirability, your judgment. And now you’re letting that past trauma dictate your future. Our future.”

Tears threaten, but I blink them back. “You don’t understand.”

“I understand perfectly.” He reaches across the table, taking my hand before I can pull away. “Jason called you frigid, made you believe you were somehow lacking. But he was wrong, Elliot. So wrong. And I think part of you knows that, and it terrifies you.”

Heat floods my face at his reference to Jason’s cruel assessment of my sexuality—the one that cut deepest, left the most lingering damage. “This isn’t about that.”

“Isn’t it?” His voice gentles, thumb stroking across my knuckles. “You’re afraid to be vulnerable again. To open yourself up to possibility of pain. I get it. But you’re also closing yourself off from joy, from connection, from the kind of love that makes everything else worthwhile.”

The truth of his words pierces the careful armor I’ve constructed. Yes, I’m afraid. Terrified of being vulnerable, of trusting my judgment, of believing that what we have is real and not another elaborate deception that will leave me broken.

But I can’t admit that. Can’t give him that power. Can’t risk being wrong again.

“My flight leaves Friday morning,” I say instead, withdrawing my hand from his. “The company is arranging temporary housing while I look for something permanent.”

The shift in his expression—from passionate intensity to resigned determination—almost breaks my resolve.

“This isn’t over, Elliot.” It’s not a threat but a promise. “I’m not giving up on us. Not now, not ever.”

“There is no ‘us’ anymore,” I say, the words like glass in my throat. “There’s me in Seattle and you in Phoenix. Two separate lives.”

“For now.” He stands, surprisingly calm given the circumstances. “But remember this: I waited three years just to have a conversation with you. I’m perfectly capable of waiting longer for you to realize what we have is worth fighting for.”

He drops enough cash on the table to cover both our coffees, then leans down and presses a gentle kiss to my forehead. “Take care of yourself in Seattle, Elliot. And when you’re ready to admit what you really want, I’ll be here.”

I watch him walk away, shoulders straight, confidence undiminished despite the rejection. Only when he’s gone do I allow the tears to escape, tracking silently down my cheeks.

* * *

I hate Seattle.

Three weeks into my “fresh start,” and nothing feels right. The apartment doesn’t feel like home. The job, while challenging and well-paid, lacks the connection I’d built with my Phoenix clients. The city, for all its natural beauty and cultural offerings, feels cold. Impersonal.

Or maybe that’s just me.

“How’s Seattle treating you?” Sarah asks during our weekly video call, her expression skeptical as she takes in my forced smile and the untouched wine glass beside me.

“It’s fine,” I say automatically. “The job is interesting. Lots of responsibility, just like Catherine promised.”

“And your apartment? Found a permanent place yet?”

“Still looking,” I admit, glancing around the sterile corporate suite. “Nothing feels quite right.”

Sarah’s knowing look says everything she’s too kind to verbalize. “And how’s your social life? Met any interesting people?”

“I work a lot,” I deflect. “The documentation overhaul is massive. Keeps me busy.”

“Hmm.” She takes a sip of her own wine, watching me over the rim of her glass. “And have you heard from Brody?”

My heart gives a painful twist at his name. “No. Why would I? We agreed to a clean break.”

“You agreed,” she corrects. “He made it pretty clear he wasn’t accepting that.”

“Well, he seems to have accepted it now.” The words come out more bitter than intended. “It’s been three weeks without a single text.”

Sarah’s expression turns thoughtful. “Maybe he’s respecting your decision. Giving you space to realize on your own what a colossal mistake you’re making.”

“It wasn’t a mistake,” I insist, the protest automatic by now. “It was the right decision for both of us.”

“Keep telling yourself that.” Sarah’s tone lacks its usual teasing quality. “Meanwhile, playoffs are in full swing. Phoenix is up against Miami in the second round. First game was last night.”

The mention of Phoenix playing Miami sends a jolt through me. “Brody and Jason on the ice together again?”

“Yep.” Sarah’s casual tone doesn’t quite mask her intent. “Tommy says the tension was insane. Jason was all over Brody the entire game – late hits, slashes behind the play, constant chirping.”

Guilt and concern flood through me. “Was there?—”

“Another fight? No. Brody kept his cool. Completely professional.” Sarah watches my reaction carefully. “Tommy says it’s like he’s channeling all that emotion into his playing. Coach called it his best performance of the season.”

Relief mingles with an unexpected disappointment. “Good. That’s... good.”

“Is it?” Sarah challenges. “Because you look miserable. And according to Tommy, Brody’s running himself into the ground—practice, games, extra conditioning. Like he’s trying to exhaust himself so he doesn’t have to feel anything.”

“What do you want me to say, Sarah?” Frustration breaks through my careful composure. “That I made a mistake? That I’m miserable? That I miss him every day? Would that change anything?”

“It might,” she says quietly. “If you admitted it to him instead of just me.”

The conversation shifts to safer topics after that, but Sarah’s words linger long after we disconnect. Would it change anything to tell Brody how I feel? Or would it just make everything harder for both of us?

I pour myself a glass of wine, carrying it to the window where Seattle’s skyline glitters against the darkening sky. Beautiful. Foreign. Empty.

My phone buzzes with a message. Not Brody, I note with a familiar pang of disappointment, but Catherine checking on a documentation question. I answer professionally, then find myself opening my photos, scrolling back to images from before Seattle.

Brody at my kitchen counter, flour on his nose as he made pancakes. Brody reading, glasses perched on the end of his nose. Brody napping on my couch, one arm flung above his head, face relaxed in rare unguarded vulnerability.

I took the pictures surreptitiously, never showing him, somehow knowing even then that I’d need these memories to sustain me through whatever came next.

What came next was this—self-imposed exile in a beautiful city, in a perfect job, with an aching emptiness where happiness briefly flourished.

Sarah’s right. I am miserable. But admitting that means acknowledging I made the wrong choice. That I ran from happiness because I was too afraid to be vulnerable again. That I let Jason win, three years after I thought I’d finally escaped his influence.

My laptop sits on the coffee table, playoff recaps open in a browser tab I pretend I haven’t been checking obsessively. Phoenix versus Miami, game one. The article mentions Brody specifically—his stellar defensive performance despite Jason’s relentless targeting.

There’s a photo: Brody mid-game, intensity etched in every line of his body as he defends against Jason’s approach. Even through the helmet, I can read the determination in his posture, the controlled power.

I miss him. God, how I miss him.

Not just the physical attraction, though that was undeniable. I miss his ridiculous jokes. His genuine interest in my work. The way he remembered every detail of our conversations. The absolute certainty in his eyes when he told me he loved me.

My phone buzzes again—a news alert this time. Phoenix Defeats Miami in Overtime, Takes 1-0 Series Lead. Brody with the game-winning assist, the article notes. His sixth point in seven playoff games.

He’s thriving professionally, at least. Without me there complicating things, distracting him, making him a target for Jason’s vindictiveness.

It’s better this way. Has to be.

I repeat this to myself as I prepare for bed, as I lie awake staring at the unfamiliar ceiling, as sleep finally claims me hours later. It’s better this way. For both of us.

The mantra continues through the next day’s meetings, through lunch with Catherine, through the evening as I force myself to explore a Seattle neighborhood where I might eventually find a permanent apartment.

It’s better this way.

Until my phone rings at 11 PM, Sarah’s name flashing on the screen.

“Turn on ESPN,” she says without greeting. “Now.”

Something in her voice—urgency, concern, a thread of fear—has me scrambling for the remote. “What happened? Is Tommy?—”

“It’s not Tommy. It’s Brody.” Her voice catches. “Just watch.”

I find the channel just as they replay what must have happened earlier tonight—game two of the playoff series. Phoenix and Miami tied late in the third period. Brody playing another outstanding game despite Jason’s constant physical attacks. Every replay shows another cheap shot – Jason throwing an elbow behind the play, crosschecking Brody into the boards when the puck was nowhere near, slashing at his ankles during faceoffs.

The announcers note it repeatedly: “Martinez seems determined to get under Carter’s skin tonight... Another borderline hit by Martinez goes uncalled... The officials are letting them play, but Martinez is pushing the limits...”

But Brody remains composed, channeling the aggression into his play, until something finally breaks in the third period. They’re battling for position in front of Phoenix’s net when Jason says something – inaudible to microphones but clearly vicious based on Brody’s reaction.

And then chaos. Gloves dropped. Officials swarming. Brody and Jason at the center, locked in a fury of fists and rage.

“What happened?” I demand, watching in horror as the replay shows Brody landing a devastating right hook that sends Jason crashing to the ice. “What did Jason say to him?”

“Tommy just called from the arena.” Sarah’s voice is grim. “Jason made some comment about you. Something crude and explicit.”

My stomach churns with dread. “Tell me.”

“Elle—”

“Tell me, Sarah.” I need to know what Jason has done now, what poison he’s spread.

She sighs heavily. “According to Tommy, Jason said something about hoping Brody enjoyed tasting his seconds because you’d opened your legs for him in Seattle.”

The lie is so blatant, so calculated to cause maximum damage, that for a moment I can’t breathe through my rage. “That’s not—I never?—”

“I know.” Sarah’s voice gentles. “Everyone who matters knows. But it was enough to make Brody snap. Tommy says he’s never seen him like that.”

On screen, the replay continues—officials separating the players, blood visible on both men’s faces, Brody being escorted to the penalty box and then directly to the locker room. The commentators discussing the likely suspensions, the impact on both teams’ playoff hopes.

The analysis is surprisingly favorable to Brody, with one commentator noting: “You have to wonder what Martinez said. Carter’s been composed all night despite consistent targeting. Whatever was said clearly crossed a line.”

“How bad is it?” I ask, unable to look away from Brody’s face as they replay the moment again. The raw fury in his expression is so at odds with the gentle man I know.

“Bad,” Sarah admits. “Suspension for sure. But given the way Jason was targeting him all night, the league might be lenient. Everyone could see Martinez was the instigator.”

The reality of what’s happened crashes down on me. “This is exactly what Jason wanted. What I was trying to prevent by leaving. And it happened anyway.”

“Because Jason is a vindictive sociopath who won’t stop until he gets what he wants,” Sarah says bluntly. “Which is you, miserable and isolated, and Brody, professionally damaged. Exactly what you’ve given him by running away.”

The truth of her words strikes like a physical blow. I haven’t protected Brody by leaving. I’ve just made him more vulnerable, removed the one person who might have kept him grounded in the face of Jason’s provocations.

“I have to fix this,” I whisper, though I have no idea how.

“Yes, you do.” Sarah’s voice turns gentle but firm. “The question is whether you’re brave enough to try.”

After we hang up, I sit in the dark of my temporary apartment, the television still replaying the fight on mute. Brody’s face, contorted with a rage I’ve never seen. Jason’s smirk even as blood streams from his nose. The officials between them, preventing further damage.

All because of me. Because I ran instead of staying to fight. Because I chose fear over love.

My phone buzzes with a text from an unknown number. Against my better judgment, I open it.

Always knew Carter was unstable. Now everyone else does too. Hope Seattle was worth it, Elliot.

Jason. Of course. Gloating over the chaos he’s created.

I block the number without responding, a familiar sick feeling settling in my stomach. This is Jason at his most successful—creating doubt, sowing discord, ensuring everyone around him is as miserable as he is inside.

And I’ve played right into his hands. Given him exactly what he wanted by running away from the best thing that’s ever happened to me.

The realization is like ice water in my veins, shocking me into clarity after weeks of self-deception. I didn’t leave to protect Brody. I left to protect myself—from vulnerability, from the terrifying possibility of real intimacy, from the risk of loving someone who might actually love me back just as I am.

I left because I was a coward. Because three years after my divorce, I was still letting Jason dictate my choices, still believing his cruel assessments of my worth.

But what now? Brody is facing suspension, possibly worse if the league comes down hard on him for the fight. The damage is done. And I’m contractually obligated to Nexium for at least a year.

Is it too late to fix what I’ve broken? To become the person who fights for what she wants instead of running from it?

I don’t know. But as I watch the replay of Brody defending my honor—foolishly, recklessly, with the absolute conviction of someone who believes I’m worth fighting for—I realize something with painful clarity:

I love him. Have loved him, probably since that first morning when he appeared at my door without a shirt, asking for coffee and looking at me like I was some kind of miracle he couldn’t believe was real.

The admission changes nothing practical about our situation. But it changes everything about how I feel sitting alone in this sterile apartment, three states away from the only place that ever felt like home.

After hours of internal debate, I reach for my phone and type a simple message.

I saw what happened tonight. I’m sorry, Brody.

I hit send before I can second-guess myself, then set the phone down, not expecting a response. It’s late, and he’s likely dealing with the aftermath of the fight, team meetings, medical evaluations.

To my surprise, the phone buzzes a few minutes later.

I meant what I said that day in the coffee shop. This isn’t over, Elliot. Not by a long shot.

Simple. Direct. A promise, not a forgiveness. But it’s something—a lifeline in the darkness, a possibility I don’t deserve but desperately want to seize.

For the first time since arriving in Seattle, I fall asleep without the hollow ache of regret in my chest.