Page 55 of Falling Back to You

“Hey, about last Saturday—”Dial’s posture straightened like she was steeling herself for this conversation. “I was thinking about what you said that night. About my using you. I don’t like that you think that of me.”

“I was just talking.”

“It came from a real place. And I think you’re right, I have been. I’ve been using you as a crutch for when I’m horny, or sad, or need an ego boost. And it’s not fair to you.”

“I’d do anything for you.”

“I know it, and I’ve taken advantage, but that stops now. I am fully aware I’ve given you mixed signals. I own that. We break up and get back together. We break up and secretly fuck. And that night just confirmed that none of this is beneficial to either of us.”

“Dial, I’m always gonna do what you want me to do. So, if you need me to be the one that falls back, I will, because I lo—”

I pursed my lips tight. Declaring my undying love wasn’t going to make anything better. In fact, it had the potential to make things worse.

“We made a promise to be one another’s strength, so if this is a boundary you’re setting, I’ll abide by it,” I said instead. “But you have to say it, because I’m thickheaded.”

“Say what?”

“That I have no chance and this is where our story ends. Because we’ve done this merry-go-round so many times that I’m dizzy.

She went still, like I’d struck something tender she’d been guarding too long. She lifted her chin, that proud, stubborn tilt she used like armor, but the breath she dragged in wasn’t steady. I noticed the shimmer gathering at the corners of her eyes, the way she blinked too slowly, as if willing the tears back through sheer force of will.

Dial hated crying in front of others because when she did, people tended to make a fuss. If Dial Birch was crying, then there was something wrong.

Her lips pressed into a line that was supposed to look decisive, but the edges trembled. Dial wouldn’t look at me. That was how I knew I’d hit the place she didn’t want me anywhere near. She was fighting herself, fighting me, fighting the truth we could almost feel pulsing between us.

I stepped toward her before I could stop myself, every instinct within crying out for me to reach for her the way a body reaches for warmth. She didn’t look up, just blinked hard as the tears gathered on her lashes, and I froze, close enough to feel the tremor in her breath, far enough that I couldn’t touch her without breaking whatever fragile boundary we were pretending still existed. My hands curled uselessly at my sides. God, I wanted to cup her face, pull her in, tell her she didn’t have to be strong with me. But this was the line we kept drawing and redrawing, and I was so damn tired of crossing it. So I stood there, muscles locked, heart begging, watching her fight for composure while every part of me ached to be the one who steadied her.

She drew in a shaky breath before she spoke, and her voice came out soft but steady, threaded with a longing she couldn’t hide. “I wanna be wooed and courted,” she said, the words soft but sure, like she was laying down something fragile. “I wanna be chosen. Not out of habit or history, but because someone can’t imagine not choosing me.”

As she talked, something in her opened up—not toward me, but toward the idea of the love she was describing. Her eyes were distant, as if she could see it laid out in front of her: the gestures, the devotion, the slow, deliberate choosing.

“I want the kind of love that shows up. That tries. That doesn’t make me feel foolish for wanting rose petals and slow mornings with someone who actually means it.” Her voice thinned on the last word, pride stitching it back together before it could break. “That’s what I want.”

As she spoke, something in my chest tightened, a mix of longing and regret twisting together until I could barely breathe. I watched the way her eyes softened when she talked about being chosen, about being cherished, and it felt like she was holding up a mirror, reflecting back all the ways I’d fallen short. A warmth bloomed inside, a fierce desire to give her exactly what she was asking for, but it was tangled with the sharp fear that I’d already missed my chance.

Dial brushed a tear away before it could fall. “I should go.”

“Uhm, yeah… I…” My brain was still processing her words and the best response to them, leaving me dumbstruck.

She didn’t wait for me to catch up—collecting her bag, she rushed to the door. “Thanks for the pad thai.”

I’d asked her to let me down easy, and she’d decided instead to give me an olive branch. She wasn’t referring to some abstract dream or hypothetical love. She was describing the way she wished I would love her. And standing here, I felt the weight of it settle heavy in my bones. It was a sliver of sunlight, and I just hoped I proved myself deserving of it.

11

Dial

I was dead to the world when Reese entered my bedroom, her voice loud and high-pitched. “Girl, why are you still in bed?”

Brushing the sleep from my eyes, I asked, “Did you knock?”

“No, I just used the key in the fake rock. Have you been outside?”

It was clear my plan for a slow start to the morning was thwarted. “No, why?”

“You need to see this.” Reese pulled me from the bed, not even giving me a chance to properly slide into my slippers.

“Can you please chill? I’m not going anywhere until I pee.”