CHAPTER 102: Come Home

POV: Avalon Pierce

He was standing in the middle of the living room when she walked in.

She closed the door.

They looked at each other across the apartment.

“How did you find out?” she said.

“Margaret. She saw Claire’s name on the foundation calendar this morning and called me.” He paused. “I tried to reach you before the meeting but you didn’t pick up.”

“My phone was on silent.”

“I know.”

She put her bag down and kept her coat on.

He noticed but didn’t say anything about it.

“Tell me about her,” Selene said.

“What do you want to know?”

“Everything you should have already told me.”

He looked at her.

Then he sat down.

She sat across from him.

“We met at a conference,” he said. “Four years into the ten years. I was thirty-one. She was a corporate attorney. We talked for three hours at a dinner I’d been trying to leave for two.” He looked at his hands. “She was the first person in years who made me forget I was trying to leave.”

Selene said nothing.

“We were together for eight months,” he said. “It was real. It wasn’t casual. It wasn’t nothing.”

“Why did it end?”

“I ended it.”

“Why?”

He looked at the floor briefly.

“Because something was always missing,” he said. “I couldn’t name it then. I just knew that being with her felt like almost. Like I was very close to something but not quite there.” He paused. “I know now what was missing.”

“Don’t,” Selene said.

He looked up.

“Don’t tell me it was me,” she said. “Don’t make her the gap I filled. That’s not fair to her and it’s not the whole truth.”

He was quiet for a bit.

“You’re right,” he said.

“Then what is the whole truth?”

“The whole truth is that she was good,” he said. “She was genuinely good. Smart and honest and she tried to reach me in ways that were real.” He paused. “And I let her get close enough to matter and then I found a reason to end it because getting close enough to matter terrified me and I had a decade of practice at finding reasons.”

“So you ended it because of your walls.”

“Yes.”

“Not because of me.”

“Not consciously.” He looked at her. “But Selene. You were always there underneath everything. I buried you so deep I thought you were gone. You weren’t gone.”

She looked at the window.

“That’s not fair to her either,” she said quietly.

“No,” he said. “It wasn’t.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” she said.

“I don’t have a good answer.”

“Try.”

He was quiet for a moment.

“When you came back everything before felt like it belonged to a different person,” he said. “The ten years. The walls. Claire. All of it. I was so focused on what we were building that what came before felt irrelevant.”

“It’s not irrelevant.”

“I know that now.”

“She’s a real person who knew you,” Selene said. “She knew you when I didn’t. That’s not irrelevant. That’s part of the shape of who you are.”

He looked at her.

“Are you angry?” he said.

“Yes.”

“At her?”

“No.” She finally looked at him directly. “At you. For deciding what I needed to know.” She paused. “That’s the management thing. Deciding what information I could handle. Protecting me from something that was mine to know.”

He sat with that.

Because she was right.

Completely right.

“Yes,” he said. “That’s what I did.”

“Approximately mentioning,” she said. “Except this time you didn’t even approximately mention. You just didn’t.”

“Yes.”

The apartment was very quiet.

Outside San Francisco continued indifferently.

“What did she say to you?” he said. “In the meeting.”

“She told me immediately. She was professional and honest.” Selene looked at her hands. “She said you were lucky.”

Something moved across his face.

“She’s a good person,” he said.

“I know.” Selene stood. Walked to the window. “That’s almost the hardest part. If she were awful it would be simpler.” She looked at the street below. “She’s not awful. She’s accomplished and honest and she walked into a room and told me the truth within thirty seconds of realising who I was.” She paused. “She handled it better than you did.”

He said nothing.

Because that was true too.

She stood at the window for a long time.

He didn’t fill the silence.

Learned that from her.

“I have one question,” she said finally without turning around.

“Ask it.”

“Is there anything else. From the ten years. Anyone else. Anything you decided I didn’t need to know.”

“No,” he said. Immediately. “Claire was the only one who mattered. The others were—” He paused. “There were a few others. Nothing significant. Nothing that lasted more than a few weeks.”

“I’m not asking about weeks,” she said. “I’m asking about anything that matters.”

“Nothing else matters,” he said.

She turned around.

Looked at him.

He held her gaze.

“Okay,” she said.

“Okay?”

“I believe you.” She came back. Sat beside him this time. Not across. Beside. “But Avalon.”

“I know.”

“If there is ever—”

“There won’t be.”

“If there ever is anything that belongs to us that I don’t know—”

“I tell you,” he said. “Immediately. Before it has a chance to become something sitting between us.” He paused. “I understand now. I didn’t before.”

She looked at him.

“The management thing,” she said.

“I’m done managing what you know,” he said. “I should have been done with it long ago.”

She leaned back against the couch.

He leaned back beside her.

They sat in the quiet apartment.

Not touching.

Not not touching.

Just beside each other in the specific way of two people who had just gone through something and were finding their way back to the same side.

After a while she said: “She was good for you.”

He looked at her.

“Whatever she was,” Selene said. “Whatever those eight months were. She kept you in the world when you were trying to leave it.” She paused. “I’m glad she did.”

He said nothing for a moment.

“That’s—” He stopped.

“What.”

“A very generous thing to say.”

“It’s a true thing to say.” She looked at the ceiling. “I was gone. Someone else was there. She kept you connected to being human when you were trying to opt out of it.” She paused. “I don’t have to hate her for that.”

He looked at her.

At this woman.

At everything she consistently was when it would have been easier to be something smaller.

“I love you,” he said.

“I know.” She looked at him. “I’m still angry.”

“I know.”

“Both things.”

“Both things,” he agreed.

Her phone buzzed.

She looked at it.

Amara.

A text.

When you’re ready. No rush. But Selene. Claire Whitfield called the office an hour ago. She wants to withdraw the partnership application.

Then a second message.

She said she doesn’t want her history with Avalon to compromise what you’re building.

Selene read it twice.

Showed it to Avalon.

He read it.

They looked at each other.

“She’s withdrawing,” Selene said.

“Yes.”

“Because of her history with you.”

“Yes.”

Selene looked at the phone.

At an organisation with strong governance, genuine community relationships, and a woman running it who had walked into a room and told the truth within thirty seconds.

“She shouldn’t withdraw,” Selene said.

Avalon looked at her.

“The organisation is strong,” Selene said. “The work is real. The foundation needs partners like her.” She picked up her phone. “And I’m not letting your history cost the foundation a good partnership.”

“Selene—”

“Call her,” she said. “Tell her the partnership application stands. Tell her the foundation makes decisions based on the work not on personal history.” She looked at him. “Tell her I said so specifically.”

He looked at her for a long moment.

“Are you sure?” he said.

She stood up.

Took off her coat finally.

Hung it by the door.

Came back.

“I’m sure,” she said.