I learned in freshman biology that the medulla, the lowest part of the brain stem, controls your heart beat. As a logical and pragmatic girl, I always liked that idea, that the brain controlled the heart. But what I didn't learn until senior year Anatomy & Physiology, was that the heart has its own mini-nervous system, a detailed network of neurons, neurotransmitters, proteins and support cells that function as its own mini-brain. The brain cannot live if the heart stops beating, but the heart can continue to beat even after the brain is dead. In fact, it can continue to beat even after being removed from the body.

I chose this. I chose to quit my job. I chose to block his number. I made a conscious, deliberate, logical decision to remove James from my life. But logic doesn't trump emotion any more than the brain trumps the heart. My heart still skips a beat the instant James sits on the bench next to me. It still squeezes in my chest, a fist grasping my soul and pulling it toward his. Traitorous heart. Why can't you listen to your brain?

"What are you doing out here in the cold?" His voice slices through me, and I feel tears sting the back of my eyes. I miss him so much it hurts.

"I wanted to check out the courthouse and the conference room. My interview is Tuesday." Even though I'm managing my anxiety much better with therapy and medication, I know the interview and facing Judge Ward again will be stressful. I'll less anxious if I'm at least familiar with the environment.

He nods. "The externship. I'm sure you'll be brilliant."

I don't know how much difference it'll make considering the circumstances, but I'm going to try.

I can feel his eyes on the side of my face now, studying. "Are you okay?"

I nod, afraid that if I speak, I'll crack. The wind blows again, and I squeeze my arms around my body tighter. 

"Blaise, please. Look at me." I finally turn my head, and he looks just as awful as I feel. His hair hangs in unruly curls across his forehead. There's stubble on his neck and dark circles under his eyes. He stares at me, his face roaming over each of my features, like he's studying me, no doubt taking in my own frown and puffy eyes. 

"I'm fine."

"Liar." He leans over and nudges me with his shoulder. Dr. Sharp exits Roasters and walks past us. He gives James a curt head nod. He never acknowledges me, but it's a reminder that even though the cold has kept most people off the square this morning, we're not alone out here. James seems to register the same thought, because he scoots closer to the arm rest and places his messenger bag between us. He pulls out a leather notebook and a pen. Not just any pen. The pen. He scribbles in the notepad and waits until Dr. Sharp is out of ear shot to speak again. 

"How've you been? Honestly?" he asks.

Honestly? My grades are better. My friendships are stronger. My anxiety is under control. The last year has been the hardest year of my life, but it also showed me how strong I am. I miss my dad, but I don't need him to survive. I don't need Wyatt. I don't even need you. But I still want you. I still miss you. I miss your smile and your wisdom and your corny jokes. I miss you so damn much. 

"I'm fine. Honestly."

He stares at me for another long moment, then looks back down at the empty notebook on his lap. He rubs the back of his neck and turns toward me. He opens his mouth to speak, but seems to change his mind. Instead, he shakes his head, reaches to his left and grabs a small, white cardboard box wrapped in a simple ribbon and sets it on the bench between us.

"Happy Birthday. It's nothing big, just -" He hesitates, then stands and looks down at me. "Happy birthday."

He turns to leave, and I pick up the warm, sugary-smelling box. I open it and my breath hitches when I realize it's a chocolate croissant. It's such a simple gesture, but for the first time today I feel not only cared for and supported, but seen and known. Genuinely seen and known.

"James, wait." He stops in the middle of the sidewalk and slowly turns toward me. "Thank you, it means a lot that you remembered." My voice hitches on the last word, and the tears break through. He's back on the bench in two strides. He raises his arm as if he's going to drape it over my shoulder and pull me close, but he takes a look at the small crowd of bystanders moving around the square and rests his arm on the bench behind me instead. My skin vibrates with the need to feel his touch. My lip quivers, but I hold the tears at bay. We sit on the bench like that for a while, him pretending to take notes in his notepad. Me crying silently beside him. After I wipe my last tear, he finally speaks, his voice still a soft whisper.

"I hate that you're unhappy and I hate that I don't know what to do about it. And even though I know it's my fault, I hate more than anything that you won't talk to me about it."

"None of this is your fault, James. It's just - the last year has been so hard and weird and amazing, and the weight of it all just kind of hit me today, you know? When I think about where and who I was this time a year ago? There's just been a lot of change. And a lot of loss. It's hard for me not to feel lonely." It sounds pathetic, but like always with him, the truth just spills from my mouth. I pause to wipe the back of my hand across my cheekbone.

"You're not alone."

"No, I'm not. I have my friends. Martha. Eliza. Even my mom is showing up in the ways she can. I'm so grateful for all the amazing women in my corner."

"But?" he asks, prompting me to go on.

"In the last year I lost my dad and I lost my boyfriend. But the hardest part, the part I can't get over, has been losing my best friend. My confidant. My biggest supporter."

His smile drops. He takes a deep breath. "He was never worthy of you, but I can see how losing Wyatt could hurt you so much."

I shake my head. "I'm not talking about Wyatt." 

He turns his head now, and his eyes clash with mine.

"You didn't lose me, Blaise. I haven't gone anywhere. We can still be friends."

I shake my head. I can't be just friends with him. We're far past that point. "It's not enough."

He sighs. "I get it."

I whip my head in his direction, surprised but also angry at his admission. How dare he? "You don't get it. You don't have feelings for me the way I have feelings for you." The words come out with a bitter, mocking edge.

He stares at me too intently, like he's examining me. He hangs his head and rubs the back of his neck. "I'm sorry."

"You don't have to apologize for your feelings."

"I'm not. I'm apologizing for lying to you."

"What?"

"At Roasters, when I said I don't feel. I lied. Every time I'm alone with you I feel- I don't know how to describe it." He pauses. "An energy. A pulse."

He doesn't have to describe it. I feel it right now. "Like electricity."

"Yes. It was the only thing I'd felt in years. And it's addicting, being around you. In the best way. But when I saw you in the truck with him." He places his hand over his chest like I did when I was in that parking lot trying to hold my heart together. "When I saw his hands around your throat. The rage. The fear." He shuts his eyes and his fists clench at his side. "I feel. I just didn't want to ever feel that again. But this? Seeing you like this and knowing I'm the cause? It's worse."

"You're not the cause of my pain. The circumstances are. And the circumstances haven't changed." I say it for my benefit as much as his. He may be able to admit he has feelings for me. It doesn't mean he'll do anything about it.

"No. They haven't." He leans back and tilts his head back, looking up at the sky. He let's out a long exhale, then turns back toward me. "Are you done with finals?"

I'm caught off guard by his sudden change of topic. "Um. Yeah." 

"You have any plans for winter break?"

I'm annoyed by the small talk. What's he going to ask me about next, the weather? It feels so impersonal. But I guess this is what our relationship looks like now. He's not my boss. He's not my friend. We're just two random people on a bench biding time and chatting about weekend plans.

"I'm leaving for the long weekend. I have a little cabin on a creek in the middle of nowhere, so off the grid it doesn't have wifi or cell reception. Hell, it doesn't even have an address, just coordinates."

I imagine how it would feel to escape reality, even if just for a few days.  "I'm jealous."

"Don't be. Come with me?"

"What?" I shout the word, and a few people turn our direction. James stifles a laugh and looks back down at his notebook. I wait a few seconds before continuing.

"What do you mean?" I whisper.

"Come with me. To the cabin."

"For the whole weekend?"

"Yes. If that's what you want."

Of course it's what I want. He's the one who has always pulled away. "Are you sure?"

He nods. "Very."

"And then what?"

He looks up from the notebook and sighs. "I have no idea. I just know that I miss you and I'm tired of fighting this. You can say no, Blaise. You should say no. You deserve so much more than what I can give you."

I chew on a cuticle a cuticle while I stew over his proposal, trying to manage the risks and work out the details in my mind. He places a hand on my wrist and gently pushes down.  He quickly slides his hand over mine and squeezes before pulling his hand back. He looks around nervously, then settles back in his seat.

"I don't want you to answer now. Think about it. Really think about it. I'm dropping Jack off at Martha's at eight. If this is what you want, meet me there."

He stands and gathers his things in his bag. He walks toward me and stops as soon as he passes, just to my right. He bends down and pretends to tie his shoe. Instead, he looks up to me.

"You should say no, Blaise. But I really want you to say yes. I should have said it months ago, but please, choose me."