I just didn't know why Michael felt he needed to be here alone, why he needed to go through this alone. Without me.
"I put in transfer papers for Denver," Michael explained, staring down at his toe and the puddle of murky water around them. "It'll be a demotion, but all that mattered to me was being there, being near you so I can…"
His words trailed off and he sighed. I reached out a hand and turned his chin so that his face turned toward mine. I waited for him to lift his eyes to mine.
"I just want a chance," he said softly, his eyes imploring at he looked at me. "That's all I want, and I know I don't deserve it after all that I've done, but I just… I just need a chance."
I looked from eye to eye, uncomprehending. "A chance?" I asked.
Michael's eyes dropped again to the floor as if the weight of holding them up had become too unbearable.
"I just want a chance to earn back your love, Abbi," he said, his voice hardly more than a whisper, the vast space around us making it sound even smaller. "A chance to earn my place with you, with Zara, with your family."
Michael's shoulders were sloped forward, his neck bent, his eyes lowered; he was a man who was pleading.
"That's why you paid for Zara's tuition?" I asked. "And the house?"
Michael voice shook with fervour. "I know it's not enough, but I can do more and—"
"Michael," I interrupted, grabbing his hands and sweeping them up.
He raised his eyes and I cupped his cheek. There was pain in his eyes.
"Sit," I said, nodding at the floor.
"It's a mess," Michael said, frowning.
I raised an amused eyebrow. "And we're not?"
Michael laughed wearily and we sank together to the muddy marble. Our knees touched much like they did in the linen closest the first night we met. I didn't move away then and I didn't move away now. I kept his hands in mine.
"Michael," I said, running my thumb along his, "love isn't something you can earn."
I gestured around the office.
"No matter how much money you have, it will never be enough. No matter how much success you gain it, will never be enough. No matter how many material things or homes or fancy suits, all of that will never add up to enough, enough to earn love. It's just not the way it works."
Michael stared at me. He'd learned to view love like any other goal to achieve in life: have a plan, work hard toward it, and he could have it, just like a Rolex or Mercedes.
"Love," I continued. "Love is given. Given and given freely, or it's not love."
I squeezed his hands and smiled. Michael frowned and shook his head. "But then, then, what do I do?" he asked.
I laughed. "The only thing you haven't done," I said. "Nothing. Absolutely nothing."
Michael gave me a bewildered look. I licked my lips and scooted a little closer toward him.
"I've loved you since that weekend in the mountains together," I explained. "I gave you my love that night and it's been sitting there on the doorstep of your heart this whole time. You've run away from it, covered it in cash, run away from it again, built a house around it. But all you've needed to do, all you've ever needed to do is take it. Just take it."
My words became imploring as I searched his eyes. I wanted him to understand. I wanted him to understand that I'd been waiting for him. He'd been running laps around me and all I wanted for him to do was stop. Just stop and be with me. Michael looked at me hesitantly.
"It can't be that easy."
"Why?"
He took a moment to think. "Because it just can't be," he finally said, shaking his head emphatically. "You can’t just give me something I don't deserve. The things I've done to you…the things I've done to our child… No, I want to earn it. I have to earn it."
"You can't!" I cried, grabbing hold of his face. "You can't. I've already given it to you. It's right here." I placed his hand on my heart. "What can I say to make you see?" I asked. "Michael, you have to see."
He pulled his hand away and then stared at the lines of his palm as it rested open on his knee. "Why can't you just let me do things the way I know how?"
My fingers balled into fists of frustration, my nails digging into my palms. "Because your way sucks," I said as bluntly as the smack of a baseball bat. "Why can't you hear me? Am I not speaking loud enough?"
I cupped my hands over my mouth and shouted, "Michael O'Sullivan, I love you!"
My voice echoed off the marble floors and glass windows as Michael looked at me in horror, as if we were in a library.
"Someone's going to hear you," he hissed, placing a hand over my mouth.
I immediately tugged it away.
"I don't care as long as you hear me," I said before shouting again with my head thrown back. "I love Michael O'Sullivan and he didn't do anything to deserve it!"
"Abbi," Michael warned.
"Did you hear me?"
Before he could answer there was the rap of knuckles against the door and a
