I froze. Refused to look at him.
“I just…want you to know. I’ve…” He struggled for words. “I’ve had a good time with you.”
“Oh my God.” Now I glared at him. His words felt like a slap in the face. “Really? That’s what you have to say to me right now?”
He jerked his chin at me. “What do you want me to say?”
“I want you to admit the truth, Jack!” I yelled, cursing these damn tears that wouldn’t quit. When had I become so emotional? “You feel something for me, and you’re scared of it.”
“Don’t tell me what I feel,” he said angrily, fidgeting in his seat. “You have no idea what it’s like to be me.”
“You’re right, I don’t. But I know you’re choosing to be that way. Closed off. Miserable. Lonely.” I wiped my nose with the back of my wrist and softened my voice. “It doesn’t have to be that way, Jack. We could be good together if you’d let yourself move on.”
He started to say something, then stopped. His right hand clenched into a fist. “The night I asked you to stay, you said you didn’t need promises.”
“I didn’t! And I don’t—I’m not asking for a promise, Jack. I’m asking for a chance. That’s all. A chance.” My heart beat frantically in my chest as he weighed my words against his misguided convictions. His lips trembled and slammed shut. His forehead creased. His fingers curled and flexed. I could see the struggle in him, the temptation to give in to me versus the strength of his guilty conscience. Which would prevail? Our eyes met, and for a second, I thought he’d choose me.
But he didn’t. He looked away. “I’ve got no chance to give you.”
Devastated, I got out of the truck and ran into the cottage, choking back tears. When the door was closed behind me, I locked it and ran to the bedroom, throwing myself onto the bed. Gathering his pillow in my arms, I sobbed into it for what felt like hours.
I cried for Jack, for the life he lived and the life he was wasting. I cried for myself, because I hadn’t been enough to change his mind. I cried at the thought of going home and trying to forget we’d ever met, kissed, touched each other.
And I cried for what would never be, a chance that would never be taken.
Thirty
Margot
I was up the entire night. Even after the tears ran dry, question after question nagged me. Was this my fault? Had I pushed too hard? Had I rushed things? Had I imagined something between us that wasn’t there? Was I crazy to be this upset over someone I’d known for a week? Had the amazing sex clouded my judgment?
Then there were the maybe’s. Maybe I’d romanticized the whole hot farmer thing. Maybe I was only attracted to him because he was the anti-Tripp. Maybe the affair was just one big rebellion against rules for Thurber women. Maybe I’d get home and realize he’d never have fit into my life, I’d never have fit into his, and thank God he’d broken things off when he had.
But there were what if’s too.
What if I’d come here for a reason? What if he was the something missing from my life? What if I wasn’t supposed to give up on him? What if he needed me to help him heal? What if I never met anyone who made me feel the way he did? What if we were supposed to be together?
The mental and emotional anguish was too much. I craved the familiarity of home, the feeling that I belonged somewhere. At six the next morning, I packed my bags, left a message for the property manager and the key on the counter, and drove home.
On the two-hour drive, I chugged crummy gas station coffee and cringed repeatedly at the memory of his rejection. It was like reliving the breakup with Tripp all over again! What was the matter with me? Why didn’t anyone want me? Was I fundamentally unloveable? Was the prospect of a future with me so terrible? Did I smell? I sniffed my armpits.
Since it seemed like my deodorant worked, it had to be something else, and by the time I got home, I was convinced of my general worthlessness and repugnance.
Dumping my bags at the door, I went straight to my room, traded my shorts and blouse for pajamas, and flopped into bed. But I’d had so much coffee on the drive that sleep was impossible. I lay there, getting more despondent by the minute, until I finally gave up and called Jaime.
“Howdy,” she said when she answered. “How’s life on the farm? You get your four orgasms already today?”
“Not even close. I’m not even at the farm anymore.” I pictured the sun coming up over the lake, shining on the horses in the pasture, creating shadows behind the barn perfect for kissing in. Was Jack awake? Had he even slept? Was he doing chores and remembering when I’d helped him?
“What happened? You sound miserable.”
“I am.” I closed my eyes. “Maybe I shouldn’t be, but I am.”
“Want to talk about it?”
“Yes. Where’s Claire? Can you have lunch?”
“Crap, I can’t. And Claire’s looking at houses this afternoon. How about drinks right after work? Around six?”