Chapter 6: The Weight of Secrets
Thomas Gray POV
Something's wrong.
I know it the moment I wake up, the certainty sitting heavy in my chest like stone. Three days have passed since that perfect evening with Mary Rose and Emma on the terrace, three days since I felt genuine happiness for the first time in years, and now silence stretches between us like an ocean I don't know how to cross.
My phone sits on the nightstand, accusing me with its lack of messages. No texts from Mary Rose about the Wellington-Morrison final details. No calls about additional photo requirements. Nothing but professional void where warmth used to live.
I roll out of bed, muscles protesting against another restless night. The memorial garden draws me like it always does when my thoughts spiral beyond control, Catherine's roses offering the only counsel that makes sense anymore.
"Talk to me, sweetheart," I whisper to the champagne-colored blooms she loved most. "What do I do when I can't read the woman who's turned my world upside down?"
The roses don't answer, but their silence feels different this morning. Less comforting, more expectant. Like they're waiting for me to figure this out myself.
I pull my phone from my pajama pocket, scrolling through our brief text exchange from yesterday.
Thomas: Good morning. Hope your week is going well.
Mary Rose: Fine, thank you. Very busy with client work.
Thomas: Would you like to have dinner tonight? I know a place with excellent lighting for photography.
Mary Rose: Can't. Previous commitment.
The responses grew shorter with each exchange until they stopped entirely. Professional courtesy replacing the warmth we'd shared in the garden, the connection that felt inevitable and right.
But it wasn't right. Something shifted between Tuesday evening and Wednesday morning, some invisible line crossed that changed everything.
I dial Emma's number before I can second-guess myself.
"Dad?" Her voice carries sleep and concern in equal measure. "It's seven in the morning. Are you okay?"
"I need to ask you something."
"About Mary Rose."
It's not a question. Emma's always been too perceptive for her own good, reading people's emotional states like others read headlines.
"How did you know?"
"Because you've called me every day this week asking how my thesis is going, when we both know you're thinking about something else entirely." Papers rustle as she sits up in bed. "What happened?"
"That's what I'm trying to figure out." I sink onto the garden bench where Mary Rose and I shared stories about loss and healing. "Tuesday night was perfect. We talked for hours, she opened up about her parents, you two connected immediately. Everything felt..."
"Natural?"
"Right." The word comes out rough with emotion I'm still learning to accept. "Like maybe Catherine was right about love transforming instead of dying."
"But?"
"But Wednesday she disappeared. Professional responses only, no personal warmth, no suggestion of when we might see each other again." I run my free hand through my hair, frustrated by my inability to decode what went wrong. "Did I push too hard? Move too fast?"
"Dad, you held her hand. You didn't propose."
"Maybe that was too much. Maybe she's not ready for"
"Stop." Emma's voice carries the authority she inherited from Catherine. "Don't do that thing where you convince yourself you're the problem before you have all the information."
"Then what do you think happened?"
Silence stretches between us while Emma considers. I can practically hear her analytical mind working through possibilities, the same careful observation skills that make her exceptional at reading trauma responses.
"When people shut down that quickly, that completely, it's usually fear," she says finally. "Something triggered her flight response."
"Fear of what?"
"You, maybe. The intensity of what's happening between you two." Another pause. "Or fear of something else entirely. Something that has nothing to do with you but affects how she can respond to you."
The distinction hits like revelation. "Explain."
"Tuesday night, she was present. Engaged. Sharing personal stories and letting us see her vulnerability. That's not someone who's afraid of connection itself."
"No, it's not."
"But if something happened Wednesday some external factor, some complication she couldn't control that might make her pull away to protect everyone involved."
"What kind of complication?"
"I don't know, Dad. That's what you need to find out."
I stand and pace the garden path, my bare feet finding familiar stones worn smooth by years of grief walks. "How do I ask someone what's wrong when they're clearly not ready to tell me?"
"You don't ask what's wrong. You ask what they need."
"What's the difference?"
"One puts pressure on them to explain themselves. The other gives them permission to set boundaries while knowing you're still there."
Smart girl. Catherine would be proud of the woman our daughter's become.
"What if she needs space permanently? What if whatever happened convinced her we're impossible?"
"Then you'll respect that." Emma's voice softens with sympathy. "But Dad, you saw her face Tuesday night. When she looked at you, when she was sharing her mother's story that wasn't someone preparing to run. That was someone falling in love and being terrified by it."
"You think she's falling in love with me?"
"I think you're both falling in love with each other, and someone who's been hurt as badly as she has might need more time to trust that it's safe."
"How do you know she's been hurt badly?"
"The way she talked about her photography saving her life. The careful way she shared personal information, like she was testing whether it would be used against her later. The fact that someone that beautiful and talented is single at thirty-two." Emma's voice grows thoughtful. "She's been through something that taught her love isn't safe. You need to prove otherwise."
"How?"
"By being consistent. By not disappearing when she gets scared. By making it clear that your feelings don't depend on her being ready to reciprocate them fully."
I stop pacing, struck by the wisdom in my daughter's words. "When did you become so smart about relationships?"
"Art therapy teaches you to recognize emotional patterns. Plus, I've been watching you grieve for five years. I know what genuine love looks like, and I know what fear of losing it looks like."
"And you think Mary Rose is afraid of losing something she hasn't even admitted she wants?"
"I think she's afraid of wanting it." Emma's voice grows gentle. "There's a difference between being afraid of love and being afraid of letting yourself love. One's about the feeling itself. The other's about survival."
"Christ, Em. What if I can't help her feel safe enough?"
"Then you'll love her anyway. From whatever distance she needs. That's what real love does it adapts to protect what matters most."
"Even if what matters most is her peace of mind instead of my happiness?"
"Especially then."
I sink back onto the bench, overwhelmed by the complexity of loving someone whose heart carries scars I can't see. "This is harder than I expected."
"Love usually is. Mom used to say the easy relationships are the ones that don't change you. The hard ones are the ones that make you better than you were before."
"Mary Rose has already changed me."
"How?"
"I forgot what hope felt like until she walked into the ballroom. I forgot what it meant to anticipate someone's arrival, to want to share every small moment of my day with another person." My voice catches. "She made me remember that there's a difference between existing and living."
"Then fight for her, Dad. Not by pressuring her or demanding explanations, but by showing her that your love isn't conditional on her being ready to receive it."
"What does that look like practically?"
"Send her flowers with no expectation of response. Text her good morning without requiring her to text back. Let her know you're thinking of her without making it her responsibility to manage your feelings about that."
"And if she never comes back? If whatever's scaring her proves too big to overcome?"
"Then you'll know you did everything you could to love her well. And sometimes, loving someone well means letting them go."
The words hit like physical blow, but I recognize truth in them. Catherine taught me that love isn't ownership it's witnessing someone fully and wanting their highest good, even when that good doesn't include you.
"I'm scared, Em."
"Of what?"
"Of losing her before I really have her. Of never knowing what we could have been together." I stare at the roses Catherine planted, wondering if their beauty would feel like mockery if Mary Rose disappears permanently. "Of going back to existing instead of living."
"You won't go back, Dad. Even if things don't work out with Mary Rose, you won't forget what it feels like to be alive again. That's not something you lose once you remember it."
"How can you be sure?"
"Because loving someone really loving them changes you permanently. It expands your capacity for feeling, for connection, for hope. Even if that specific love doesn't work out, the expansion remains."
"Your mother taught you that?"
"You did. By loving her so completely that her death couldn't kill your ability to love. By raising me to believe in the kind of love worth waiting for. By being willing to risk your heart again with Mary Rose."
Tears blur my vision as I understand what Emma's telling me. Mary Rose has already given me an irreplaceable gift the return of my ability to feel deeply, to hope for partnership, to believe in love's continuation rather than just its memory.
"Thank you," I tell my daughter.
"For what?"
"For reminding me that love isn't about getting what I want. It's about wanting what's best for the person I love, even when I don't understand what that is."
"So what are you going to do?"
"Send her flowers. Text good morning. Show up for the Wellington-Morrison wedding and be professional and kind and consistent." I stand, feeling steadier than I have since Wednesday's silence began. "And trust that if we're meant to find our way to each other, we will."
"And if you're not?"
"Then I'll be grateful for Tuesday night. For remembering what hope feels like. For meeting someone who made me want to live fully again."
"I love you, Dad."
"I love you too, sweetheart. Thank you for being wise beyond your years."
"Thank you for teaching me what real love looks like."
After hanging up, I sit in Catherine's garden as morning light transforms the roses from shadow to gold. Whatever's happening with Mary Rose, whatever fear or complication has made her retreat, I'll face it with the same patience I learned during Catherine's illness.
Love doesn't operate on my timeline. It operates on its own mysterious schedule, requiring faith that what's meant to be will find a way to become real.
But first, I need to prove to Mary Rose that my feelings for her aren't contingent on her reciprocation. That she can trust me to love her well, even from a distance, until she's ready to let me love her up close.
I pull out my phone and type:
Good morning, Mary Rose. I hope your day brings you something beautiful to photograph. No need to respond just wanted you to know I'm thinking of you.
I hit send before I can second-guess myself, then head inside to order flowers.
Whatever's frightening her, she doesn't have to face it alone.