Page 66 of Orc'd At A Wedding
I leave the cart in the aisle and walk out of the store.
Day three iswhen I realize I am a coward.
I am sitting on the couch again—I have spent a statistically alarming amount of time on this couch over the past seventy-two hours—and I am staring at my phone.
Bliss has not called.
Bliss has not texted.
Bliss has not reached out in any capacity, which means she has accepted my decision and moved on with her life.
This is the outcome I wanted.
This is what I told myself I was doing when I stepped back and delivered that cold, logical explanation about our incompatible worlds.
I was protecting her.
I run the conversation back through my mind, reviewing it the way I would review mission footage, looking for tactical errors.
"We need to discuss the logistical realities of our respective worlds."
I wince.
That is possibly the worst sentence I have ever spoken, and I once had to tell a client that his son's kidnappers were demanding payment in cryptocurrency and livestock.
I keep going.
"Your family, your social circles, your professional network—they exist in a world where my presence would be a liability."
Also terrible.
"I do not want to be the reason you are excluded or judged or treated as a curiosity."
I stop.
I sit up straighter, my jaw tightening.
That sentence is not tactical analysis.
That sentence is fear.
I was not protecting Bliss from societal judgment. I was protecting myself from the inevitable moment when she would realize that being with me came at a cost and decide I was not worth it.
I stop.
My jaw tightens. My hands curl into fists at my sides.
The conversation wasn't tactical analysis.
It was a preemptive strike.
I stand up.
I pace the length of the living room, my hands clenched behind my back, my mind moving through the problem with the same methodical focus I use for tactical planning.
Bliss told me, very clearly, that she did not care about high society or her family's money.
She told me she cared about me.
