I’m standing, stunned and speechless, when Tag comes to me. He doesn’t touch me, but I get the feeling he wants to. Not in anger, but in desperation. He raises his hands twice, but then lets them fall limply to his sides.
“I love you. I love you, damn it! The real, deep, forever kind of love. Can’t you see that? God! God,” he says, gritting his teeth and clenching his fists. “It makes me crazy to think of . . .” With a barely human growl, he spins away from me and stalks to the door. His breath is coming in harsh pants that stretch his shirt across his back, and I can practically feel him trying to control his rage. He swings the door open, but then pauses on the threshold. He just stands there as though he’s trying to collect himself. After he’s taken several deep breaths, I hear his voice again. It’s a plea full of quiet torture and immense regret. “I’m sorry, Weatherly. I didn’t come here for this. I can’t . . . I just don’t . . . I love you. That’s all I can tell you. I love you and this is killing me.”
And with that, he turns and walks out the door, pulling it shut behind him.
—
I love Tag. That’s the plain and simple truth. I don’t want to. I tried not to. But I can’t seem to stop and it won’t go away. With every day, I mourn the loss of him a little bit more. And this apartment . . . now it’s filled with his words, his confession, his gifts, his desperation. I can feel them like a tangible presence, even when my eyes are closed. It’s getting harder and harder to breathe every day. Every single day.
Besides that, there are the circumstances of our union—as well as our breakup—and the fact that they’re looming around every corner. I know that the only thing that I can do, the only way that I can survive, is to cut ties and start over. I have to get out of here. Away. Way away. However I can. It’s the only thing that will save me at this point. I can’t be here anymore. In this world. So close to Tag in so many ways, yet so far from him, too.
I refuse to ask my father about my trust, about whether he’s decided to change his mind. I don’t need his money when it comes with conditions. Instead, I spoke to a realtor yesterday about selling my place. It should give me enough money to relocate and start over, to buy a modest little house somewhere else. Anywhere else. I have no real ties here. My parents aren’t involved in my life in any way that necessitates me being local. They have a way of keeping tabs on me no matter where I’m located. The only other thing keeping me here is Safe Passage. I’ve good people in charge there, though, so I believe the kids and their best interests will be in good hands until I feel like I can come back here and pick up life again. If that ever happens. Until then, they’ll be fine.
The last loose end is Chiara. I know Tag can’t take it from me. My father had that tied up long ago to prevent anyone from being able to take it. Tag just didn’t know that. There’s no way he could’ve. But that’s not the point anymore. His mother’s home—his home—meant enough to him to go to all this trouble. And I would never want to hurt Stella. She’s always been good to me and she deserves to be able to live out the rest of her life, however short or long that might be, in her home. But at the same time, I want nothing to do with it. Everything surrounding Chiara is too painful now, too bittersweet. I’ll never be able to move on if I don’t let it go and, by extension, let Tag go. So I’m going to sell it to him. Like he wanted. Only I will insist that it be put in Stella’s name. She’ll undoubtedly will it to him when she passes, but at least I’ll have that satisfaction in the meantime.
I haven’t told Dad yet. I even used a different attorney to have the paperwork drawn up. As soon as it’s ready, he’ll call Tag and present the offer—the only offer. He can take it or leave it. I have a feeling he’ll take it, though. And then we’ll be over. Officially. Truly. Definitively.
And I’ll be alone.
THIRTY-TWO
Tag
“You need sleep, son,” Mom says, rubbing my back as she passes. I’m slumped in a kitchen chair with my throbbing head in my hands.
“No shit,” I mutter.
“Language.” Her soothing circles become a stinging slap before she walks away. “Have you talked to her?”
“Not since I put Michael on his ass. She probably hates me.”
“Whether or not you’ve earned it, I can’t see Weatherly hating you. I knew when I saw you two together that she loved you. And real love, true love doesn’t die that easily. Even when we want it to.”
“I just don’t know what else to do, Mom. I’ve told her how I feel. I’ve apologized every way I can think to apologize. I’ve begged. I’ve pleaded. I don’t know what else I can do to convince her that I love her. That I need her.”
“She doesn’t trust you, you know.”
I resist the urge to repeat my previous “No shit.” “I realize that. But I can’t very well earn back her trust if she won’t see me, if I can’t be around her.”
“No, but you can show her that she’s worth more than anything to you.”