“You’re right,” he says, his voice husky with emotion. He sounds hopeless. “I’ve been pretending. To so many people for too fucking long.”
She puts a hand on his shoulder, but he flinches away.
“Ethan…”
“I’m not doing this anymore. I’ll take the F. Can I go?”
“If there’s nothing else you want to talk about—”
“There isn’t.”
I move away from the door just as he strides out. He doesn’t stop when he sees me.
“Ethan?”
He ignores me.
“Hey, slow down. Where are you going?”
I grab his arm, and he spins around to face me. “Don’t, Cassie. Just fucking don’t. You need more than I can give. I’ve always known it, and now you know it, too. Let’s both stop trying to deny it.”
“What are you—?”
“I tried. I really did. But I’m done. We’re done.”
He pulls his arm free and walks away, and I’m too stunned to do anything but watch him go.
SEVEN
STRONGER
Present Day
New York City, New York
The Apartment of Cassandra Taylor I don’t know if he’s tired of talking or if he’s just run out of words. He’s talked a lot. About fear and how to conquer it. About learning from past mistakes. About how we’re both better people together than we ever were apart.
He’s saying everything I needed him to say years ago.
I’ve listened to it all but haven’t said much in return.
I’d expect Ethan to be frustrated with me by now, but he’s not. He’s warm. Gently reassuring. More supportive than I’ve ever known him to be.
“I’m not looking for any guarantees here, Cassie,” he says. “Just a chance. An opportunity to try.”
Try to forget what happened in the past and just love him again?
That would be nice.
But trying isn’t always enough.
I clear my throat and find my words. “Even if I agree to try, what makes you think I’m not going to act exactly like you did back then and ruin us?”
For the first time today, I see a hint of irritation. “Because you’re better than I am. You always have been. Infinitely wiser and stronger.”
If I weren’t feeling so anxious, I’d laugh. “Ethan, the one thing I’m not is strong. If I were, I’d have gotten over you by now and moved on with my life. Not be standing here seriously considering giving you another chance.”
“Bullshit. You’re strong because you’re here, facing your fears instead of running from them. If only I’d had your strength in the past, this story would have had a happy ending years ago.”
I take a deep breath and let it out slowly. As much as I want to leave the past in the past, this conversation brings it all rushing back in stomach-churning detail. My chest tightens to the point of pain. I recognize the signs of a panic attack. I’ve had one or two before, all A.E.—After Ethan. Usually Tristan talks me down.
Today, I know it’s my fight-or-flight instinct kicking in.
Ethan strokes my arms when he realizes what’s happening. Of course he recognizes the symptoms.
His anxiety attacks were what destroyed us.
EIGHT
ONE NIGHT
Six Years Earlier
Westchester, New York
The Grove
The sun sets, and I don’t move.
Ruby messages me to say she’s bumped into an old flame and won’t be home tonight, and I don’t move.
I have a vague notion I’m in shock, but I don’t know if I should be. I still don’t know what happened.
Ethan.
Ethan happened, but …
Did he just break up with me?
No.
No.
If he’d broken up with me, I’d know, right? He was upset, sure, but he was angry with Erika, not me.
No. It wasn’t even Erika’s fault. He was angry with himself.
So why do I feel so … wrong?
I stand and stretch, but it doesn’t help the ache in my bones. I need to do something. Help him.
I should tell him that whatever he’s feeling, we’ll work through it together. That’s what couples do, right?
But are we still a couple?
I grab my backpack with shaky hands and dig around inside until I find my phone. A small voice warns me to stop. Says that if I talk to him, he’ll clear up my confusion, and at this point, I’ll take vague hope over grim knowledge.
But I can’t not talk to him. I have to fix this.
I bring up his number and hesitate.
Please let him be blowing off steam. Let us get through this.
I pace the room as I wait for the call to connect. When it rings, I stop short.
I can hear Ethan’s ringtone, AC/DC’s “Back in Black,” coming from outside my door.
I yank the door open, and there he is, phone in hand, shoulders slumped, leaning against the wall opposite my door.
“Ethan?”
“I don’t know why I’m here.”
I can barely hear him. His voice is rough, and his knuckles are scraped and bloody. His posture is so bunched and tense it sets me on edge.
“What happened to your hand?”
He talks as if he doesn’t hear me. “Even when I’m trying to stay away, I can’t. What the fuck is wrong with me?”
“Ethan? Your hand?”
When he looks at me, his eyes are red and swollen. “Punched a wall.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m a pathetic fuck. You should know that by now.”