He leaves her sitting on the swingset, the ring in his pocket and her quiet explanations echoing in his ears. She can't, she's taking the job, she's leaving, it's what's best for them both. He wanted to yell at her, throw back in her face the thing she's told him time and again, that it's not up to her, she doesn't get to decide what's best for him. But all he did was nod and stand, put his hands in his pockets and then walk away.

Anger simmers under the fresh layer of hurt. He's still pissed at her for the secrets and lies of omission and for taking them back to a place where he wishes like hell that love really was a switch. Because he would turn it off right now, would cast himself into the dark in order to stop feeling the arrythmic beat of his heart and the the warmth slowly leaking out of his body the further away from her he gets.

He gets drunk that night, a bottle sitting on his nightstand and the ring, her ring, hooked around his left pinky. Everything smells like her, the sheets and the pillows and the comforter all dripping with her scent. He strips the mattress bare at one am, balling the the sheets up and throwing them into the corner, the ring flying from his finger and pinging off the cold hardwood floor.

He sleeps fully clothed on the couch, the soft leather slick under his wet cheek.

He wishes he hadn't been drunk the last time he kissed her. Wishes there was no last time, that she'd slammed the door in his face instead of biting his lip and scratching her nails down his back. The soft sigh of his name on her lips haunts him, follows him as he moves from room to room, collecting all the pieces of her he finds scattered through his home.

The earrings she slipped into his pocket in the middle of dinner one night because they were making her ears hurt, the robe he bought for her that she only used twice before going back to stealing his, bottles of shampoo and lotion and her favorite shade of nail polish. He tosses it all into a box and shoves it in the closet in his guest room, unable to make himself throw it all out.

He finds the ring under the bed, glinting dimly in the shadows. It's tiny in his palm, the band delicate and the diamonds beautifully modest. It would have looked perfect on her long, slender finger. He slips the ring back into the soft nest of crushed velvet and puts the box in the nightstand on her side of the bed, tucking it into the dark corner at the back of the drawer, hoping he can forget it's there, can erase from his mind the look on her face when she said no, when she reached into his chest and tore out his heart.

Sometimes whiskey is the only thing that can wash the taste of her out of his mouth.

Lanie starts calling him after a few weeks. She leaves him messages he doesn't listen to, sends texts he doesn't read. He feels like an ass but he can't do it, can't talk to their friends and pretend that he's not broken and lost. That he doesn't wake up from dreams of her every night, doesn't sit on the bed with the ring box in his hand, not able to open it and unwilling to put it away. That he hasn't even started to let her go.

In a haze one night, he'd downloaded an app to track the time, to measure the weeks, the days, the minutes since she's been gone. He deleted it the next morning, his face burning with embarrassment, but he didn't need it anyway. He knows exactly how long it's been, how much time has passed since they were last in the same room, the same city.

He still has flashes of anger, the fury burning hot and fast in his chest, charing his lungs and blackening the gaping hole where his heart used to be. She lied and she hid things, she broke his trust and made him doubt everything he'd thought he knew about her, about them. She walked out of his life without looking back and he wants so badly to hate her but he can't. He can't because he knows she was right when she said it was too soon, when she told him that he was doing it to make a point, doing it because it was the only thing he could think of to keep her.

He can't hate her because he loves her. And if she showed up tomorrow, asking him to forgive her, to forget it all and be with her, to move to DC and spend the rest of his life standing by her side, he would do it. He would give her anything she asked for, anything at all.

He hates himself for that.

Jim Beckett calls him the at the end of June, says he's found a subletter for her apartment and will be packing up her things over the next few days. He doesn't ask for help, just says that if there's anything he wants or needs, he should come as soon as he can.

He forces himself out of bed the next morning, drags a comb through his hair and a razor over his cheeks. It doesn't matter what he looks like, he knows that. But a streak of pride still runs along his chest and he refuses to show up at her apartment looking like the drowning man he is.

Her father opens the door with a nod, his mouth pulled into a thin, serious line so much like hers that it knocks the wind out of his chest. He can't do this. It takes everything he has not to spin on the spot and run, run away as fast as he can. Run home, run to the Hamptons, run to her; he just wants to run.

His left foot itches when he steps over the threshold, heart slamming painfully against his ribs as he tries like hell not to think about the last time he was here. When he'd pushed her up against the wall and claimed her, trying to remind them both that what they had was real, undeniable. Essential.

Boxes litter the floor, some half-packed, some taped shut and neatly labeled. Most of her things are gone and his stomach turns as he takes in the empty shelves and the bare walls. He can't fathom this apartment being inhabited by anyone other than her; can't see another person padding around barefoot in the kitchen, doesn't want to think about someone else standing naked in her shower, won't let himself imagine how a stranger's laugh would sound echoing off the walls in her bedroom.

He finds an open box at the foot of the stairs, a row of neatly arranged spines stretching from one end of the cardboard to the other. The books he wrote before her, the books he wrote for her, books filled from front to back with the words she said saved her, words that touched her and made her feel. He wonders when his words lost that power.

She said she wanted him. Just him. And now less than a year later she's gone and he's left staring at the broken pieces, wondering what the hell went wrong. Trying to figure out why they weren't enough for her, why he wasn't enough. The question gnaws at him every day, refusing to be silenced by sleep or drowned by alcohol. He needs the answer but he knows he'll never get it.

Carefully, he leans over and slips the ring from his pocket, tucking it down into a dark corner of the box. He rearranges the books, certain that her father wouldn't approve, wouldn't allow him to do this, but he has to. He can't live with it anymore, can't keep pulling it out of the drawer every night and thinking about the things he lost, the things he'll never have. She made him a better man; made him want to be a man she could love, a man she could be proud of, a man she could spend her life with. He might not have been able to be that man but he bought the ring for her and she should have it.

Whether she wants the attached promises or not.

He finds a plane ticket on his desk two weeks later. JFK to Dulles, two-fifteen the next day. Non-refundable.

He looks up, sees his mother watching him knowingly from the open doorway.

Go, Richard.

He packs a bag that night.

Thank you for reading. Your thoughts and comments are always appreciated.