I read the article with a frown. According to the reporter, Gerald died from a bacterial infection and was survived by his two dogs. Town sources close to Gerald mentioned how he refused to go to the hospital because he wanted to die in the comfort of his half-finished home.
My eyes itch. “That’s so freaking sad.”
“Stories like this make me glad I was born after penicillin was invented.”
I check out the grainy image of Gerald holding a shovel in front of a plot of land. “He never lived long enough to see his house get completed.”
“It appears not.”
“Or marry his true love.”
“Not many do.” There is a slight edge to his voice.
“She must have been heartbroken when she got the news about his death.”
“Why?”
I rear back. “What do you mean why? Because they were in love.”
“If she truly loved him, she would have stuck by his side from the beginning.”
“He was the one who told her not to come until the town was finished.”
“Then it was her mistake to listen to him.”
I can’t help feeling defensive over Francesca and her choices, especially when I see a bit of her in myself. “She waited for him, wrote him letters, and held on to a dream that one day they would get married despite the odds stacked against them. That’s what people do when they’re in love.”
“So you say.”
The audacity of this man. “For someone who has never been in love, you sure have a lot of opinions on the matter.”
The vein in his neck pulses with each erratic beat of his heart.
I continue, “What if he was the one who didn’t want to take the risk on her? What if she begged to join him, but he shut her down time and time again? He could have asked her to marry him at any time, and perhaps her father would have agreed because he wanted what was best for his daughter.”
“That’s a lot of assumptions.”
“You’re the one jumping to conclusions here by judging her for not being brave enough to join him, when maybe he was the one too afraid of the risks. Maybe he should have built a life with her rather than erecting a wall to keep her out.”
Shit. Shit. Shit!
His fist clenches and unclenches against the table. “Dahlia—”
My gaze dips back to the newspaper in the worst attempt to hide my flushed face. “Anyway, Gerald is probably the ghost, so the case is solved.”
“I never judged you.” Despite his whispering, he might as well have shouted the words.
“I was talking about Francesca.” I stand.
He does the same. “Funny, because for a moment, it felt like you were talking about us.”
My throat feels like he wrapped both hands around it and squeezed. “That’s quite the narcissistic assumption of you.”
“No mames. Háblame.”
I drag my eyes away from his balled-up fists. “You’re about ten years too late for that conversation, don’t you think?”
“Clearly this is a big mistake.”
“Wouldn’t be the first time you said that.”
He opens his mouth, only to slam it shut.
Truth is, I can give Julian a hundred different chances to explain his choice to push me away, but it won’t change the truth he made painfully obvious.
He didn’t want me.
A bitter laugh claws its way up my throat. “It’s fine.”
“I never meant to hurt you.” He exposes my insecurities with a single sentence.
Háblame: Talk to me.
“You didn’t,” I lie.
“What I did…” He loses his voice, along with whatever nerve he had found in the first place.
Good. I prefer it that way.
“Things happen the way they’re meant to,” I say.
He folds and unfolds the newspaper, only to refold it again. “I never expected you to go into design too.”
He would have if he had given me a chance to explain my hopes and fears instead of assuming he knew what was best for me by pushing me to stay at Stanford to finish a political science degree I never wanted.
I was always interested in design—that much became obvious when my parents were remodeling our house and relied on me to choose most of the finishes and furniture—but I never vocalized it since they were set on me getting some kind of professional degree.
“I took a class or two before you left.” Plus, I joined a club and got a mentor from the interior design program because I wanted to learn more without switching majors.
His brows rise. “I had no idea.”
“Nobody did.” I spent the better part of my life swearing I would become a badass lawyer, in part because my parents wanted me to have a stable, well-paying job, so the last thing I wanted to do was disappoint them by blowing a full ride to Stanford on a career that wasn’t guaranteed to be successful.
Fans think my political science major–turned–interior designer story is endearing, but it really represents my lifetime struggle with the fear of failing.
He stays quiet while he seems to work through the mental puzzle of our memories. “When you made the offer to come and work with me at the company…”
“No need to dredge up the past. It’s not like we can go back and change anything.”
“Sometimes, I wish I could.”
Breathing becomes a laborious task with how much my lungs ache.
He breaks eye contact. “I always regretted how I went about things with us. I didn’t—” His reply is cut off by Beth popping out from behind a bookcase.
“Library is closing, kids! You’ll have to wrap this up and come back tomorrow because I’ve got a date with a pint of ice cream that can’t be postponed.”
“Thanks, Beth.” I ignore Julian’s pinched expression as I hand her the keys and head back to the filing cabinet with the newspaper.
Julian doesn’t say anything else. Not when we climb into his truck. Not during the drive back to my house, and certainly not before I escape inside with a small shred of dignity intact.
I slipped up earlier. Being around Julian again after all this time is like opening up an old wound, and instead of remaining level-headed, I let my emotions get the best of me.
Despite my efforts to forget the conversation we had, I’m stuck replaying the whole exchange after I crawl into bed for the night.
What was he about to say before Beth interrupted us?
Did he mean what he said about not judging me? Because it seems impossible after I ended up dating his roommate, whom he once considered a friend.
And what would have happened if I had confessed that he isn’t the only one who regrets his actions, because I do too?
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Julian
The thought of going back to my empty house is about as enticing as a root canal without anesthesia, so I head toward Last Call after dropping Dahlia off at her house. The bar is pretty empty, with only a few Sunday stragglers taking up the stools and surrounding high-top tables. I nod toward a few locals before picking my usual spot at the end of the bar.
“Modelo?” Henry, the older bartender, places a napkin in front of me. I nod, and he sets down a bottle of my favorite beer.
“Open a tab for me.” I throw my Amex on the counter and chug half of my drink in one go.
“Rough day?” A guy a few stools down from me speaks up.
“You could say that.” I try to make out his face, but his ball cap casts a dark shadow.
“Work problems?”
I silently take another sip.
“Family issues.”
My eyes remain focused on the shelf of alcohol in front of me.