“I hope you make it in time,” I say and then realize that sounds weird.
“I’d love to see the birth, but if not, I’ll get to give my great-granddaughter all the hugs.”
“Your granddaughter and great-granddaughter sound lucky to have you.”
The final two passengers get on the plane, and I pull my hood up, not wanting to be bothered or reminded about babies. It’s late, most people on the plane seem as tired as I am, and with not even half the seats being full, it’s quiet in here. I put in my earbuds and rest my head against my balled-up sweatshirt, tears welling in my eyes.
What a freaking month this weekend has been. I need to break things down and try to process them, but the more I think about it, the more I feel like crying. I’m not ashamed to admit I’m an emotional person. I think being emotional—overly emotional at times too—makes me a good writer. I can put myself in my characters’ situations, feeling what they feel and acting it out as if I’m there.
But I also cry when I get really frustrated, which annoys me because so many people still think crying means you’re weak. Everyone has moments of weakness every once in a while, and there’s nothing wrong with that. I think showing emotion, putting yourself out there open to criticism makes you a hell of a lot braver than bottling everything up and acting like you’re okay.
And right now, I’m far from okay.I drop my bags in the kitchen and walk through my large, empty house, going upstairs to my bedroom. I’m always a little freaked out to come home to an empty house after I’ve been away from a while. I have a top-of-the-line security system, so logically, I know no one could be in the house without setting off the alarm. I can go through the activity log from the last few days too and make sure no doors or windows have been opened, giving myself peace of mind.
It’s nights like this that make me consider getting a dog, and a big one at that. I should shower and go to bed, but I don’t want to be alone with my thoughts. So instead, I go back into the kitchen, dig out my laptop from my bag, and get out a bottle of Merlot. I pour a big glass of wine and start looking at rescue dogs available for adoption in my area.
I’m already an emotional mess, tired, frustrated, and overwhelmed. Add in the wine, and looking at sad, homeless dogs probably isn’t a good idea. I blink away tears, drink more wine, and start to fill out an adoption application.
My phone chimes, and a second later a message from Sam shows up on my computer. I hesitate for half a second and then click on the text preview, opening it up in iMessages on my computer.
Sam: I know you wanted space, and I’ll give it to you. But I want you to know how much I love you, Chloe. How much I always have and how much I always will. I know this isn’t how I thought things would go, but please don’t give up on me.
And now I completely lose my battle with tears. I drink the rest of my wine, spilling it down my chin from sobbing while trying to drink it. I love Sam too, so fucking much. He’s everything to me, and I don’t want to give up on him.
But I also don’t want to share him, and I feel guilty and stupid for letting myself finally admit that. I miss Sam when we’re apart, and the distance is hard enough on us already. Long-distance isn’t ideal for either of us, but it’s what we have to do if we want to be together.
I love Sam.
He loves me.
But is love enough?
If the baby does turn out to be Sam’s it will take first priority—which it should. I believe Sam when he says he doesn’t want to be with Stacey. And I know he will be an amazing father to his child, regardless of who the mother is. And I know I can’t even think about asking him to take a week away from his newborn child to hang out with me in Europe while I’m on set.
I refill my wine, trying to see around the issues. People get divorced and remarried. Sam having a baby with one of his no-strings hookups doesn’t mean we can’t be together. Though it does, and if we lived in the same state, things would be a lot easier.
Taking another big drink of wine, another thought surfaces, and I hate that it even crosses my mind, yet insecure Chloe comes back every now and then, trying to tell me that I’m just some weirdo no one wants to be with.