Page 35 of Unholy Confessions (The Paper Rings Trilogy #1)

I kiss him then, pouring everything I can't say into it. All my love, all my fear, all my hope for what we could be someday if we both do the work we need to do. My tears mix with his, and it tastes like forever and heartbreak all at once.

His hands fist in my hair, pulling me closer, and for a moment we're just RJ and Montgomery again, the couple who fell in love over late-night conversations and shared dreams. The couple who made paper rings out of straw wrappers and called them promises.

When I finally pull away, I press my forehead to his, our breathing ragged, our hearts hammering in sync.

"No matter what happens, no matter who we become or where we go, we'll always have the paper rings. They'll always mean something. You'll always be the love of my life, even if we're not supposed to be together right now."

He's full-on crying now, his whole body shaking with the force of his emotions. "You are, though. You always will be. There's never going to be anyone else like you, Montgomery. You're it for me, you're everything, and if I have to spend the rest of my life becoming worthy of you, I will."

"You don't have to become worthy of me," I say fiercely. "You have to become worthy of yourself. You have to learn to love yourself enough to stay clean, to make good choices, to build a life you're proud of. Not for me, not for your family, but for you."

The words are hard to say because part of me wants him to do it for me, wants to be important enough to be his reason for getting better. But I've learned enough about addiction to know that recovery has to be selfish, has to come from within, or it won't stick.

We sit there for what feels like hours but is probably only minutes, holding each other and crying and trying to memorize this moment before everything changes.

The sun is setting behind us, painting everything in shades of gold and pink, and I can't help but think how fitting it is.

The end of our day, the end of our relationship as we know it.

"I should go," I finally whisper, even though every cell in my body is screaming at me to stay.

"I know," he whispers back, but neither of us moves.

"If we do this, if we take this break, there have to be rules," I say, my voice steadier than I feel. "No contact for... how long?"

The question hangs between us like a guillotine blade. How long is long enough to heal, to grow, to become the people we need to be?

"Six months," he says after a long moment. "Six months of no romantic contact. That's how long the European tour is. Six months to figure out who we are when we're not us."

Six months feels like a lifetime, but it also feels like not nearly long enough.

"And after six months?" I ask.

"After six months, if we both want to, we can try again. But as different people, with different expectations, different boundaries. Not as the codependent mess we were before."

The plan feels both hopeful and terrifying. Six months to become someone new, someone better. Six months to learn how to be happy alone so that if we do get back together, it's because we want to be together, not because we need to be.

"What if one of us meets someone else?" I ask, the words dry in my mouth.

His face crumples for a moment before he forces himself to answer. "Then we'll be happy for each other. Because all I want is for you to be happy, Montgomery. Even if it's not with me."

The generosity of it, the selflessness, breaks something inside me. This is the RJ I fell in love with, the one who would sacrifice his own happiness for mine without a second thought.

Finally, I know I have to go before I lose my nerve and beg him to just forget everything I said, to take me back and pretend we can just pick up where we left off.

RJ walks me to my car, his hand warm and familiar on the small of my back. At my door, he stops and turns me toward him, his hands shaking as he frames my face.

"If we're meant to be," he says, his voice barely above a whisper, "we'll find our way back to each other. And maybe next time, we'll be the people we're supposed to be."

"That's the only thing I'm sure about," I whisper back, then add, "I'm going to love you for the rest of my life, RJ. Whether we're together or apart, that's never going to change."

He breaks then, pulling me against him one more time, both of us sobbing. "I'm going to get better," he promises against my hair. "I'm going to become the man you deserve, even if it's too late for us."

"It's not too late," I say fiercely, my voice muffled against his chest. "It's just not time yet."

"Take care of yourself," he whispers, pressing a kiss to the top of my head. "Be happy. Fall in love with your life again. And Montgomery?"

I pull back to look at him, memorizing the face I won't see for six months.

"Don't wait for me if someone better comes along."

"There is no one better," I tell him, and I mean it.

He steps back and I get in my car, but I can't bring myself to start it yet. We stare at each other through the windshield, both of us crying, both of us knowing this is goodbye for now.

Finally, I press the start button on my car, and back out of his driveway. In my rearview mirror, I can see him standing there, watching me go, his hand pressed to his chest like he's trying to hold his heart in.

The drive home is a blur of tears and traffic lights. I have to pull over twice because I'm crying too hard to see the road. My heart feels like it's been ripped out of my chest, but somewhere underneath the pain, there's something else.

Hope.

For the first time in months, I have hope that we might actually make it. Not as the broken, codependent couple we were, but as two whole people who choose each other every day.

The paper ring catches as I grip the steering wheel, and despite everything, despite the fact that I'm crying so hard I can barely breathe, I smile through my tears.

Some promises are worth keeping, even when everything else falls apart. Some love is worth fighting for, even when fighting means letting go.

Six months. I can survive six months if it means we might get forever.

I drive home with my heart in pieces, but for the first time in weeks, I'm not afraid of being alone. Maybe Hayden was right about one thing – maybe I do need to learn how to be happy by myself before I can be happy with someone else.

The thought of Hayden makes my stomach clench with guilt and confusion. I'll have to talk to him, have to figure out what this all means for our friendship. But that's a problem for tomorrow.

Tonight, I'm going to go home and cry and mourn the end of this chapter of my life. And tomorrow, I'm going to start figuring out who Montgomery is when she's not half of Montgomery-and-RJ.

The ring feels heavier on my finger as I park in my driveway, but I don't take it off. Not yet. It's my reminder that some love is worth waiting for, worth fighting for, worth growing for.

Six months. We can do this.

We have to.