“Then why doesn’t he say something? Why does he insist he can’t give me what I deserve? Who is he to make that determination?”
Camille clasps my hands in hers as she leads me toward the sitting area, both of us lowering ourselves onto the couch. “Did you know that Mr. Gage spent his younger years in the foster care system?”
Swallowing hard, I shake my head. After those first few days, I tried to steer clear of all articles about him, mainly because I was mentioned in a lot of them. The last thing I wanted was to read gossip about myself, something Julian had warned me against earlier in the summer.
“How did he end up there?” I lower my voice. “Does it have something to do with the scars?”
She pinches her lips in contemplation. “That’s not my story to tell, but being in the foster system can change you. The system failed him, didn’t get him the help he needed after what he went through… Didn’t give him the love he needed. That boy spent his most impressionable years desperate for love, only to never have it bestowed on him. It’s my belief he gave up and decided he’s undeserving of love.”
I stare straight ahead, absorbing her words. Julian never spoke of his childhood much. Whenever I asked, he closed up, saying it was unimportant. Now I understand why. The scars have never fully healed. Physically and emotionally.
“Maybe if you show him he’s deserving of love, if you tell him how much you love him—”
Whipping my eyes toward hers, I inhale a sharp breath. “I never said I loved him.”
She pats my hand affectionally. “You didn’t have to. It’s written all over you, dear. You love that man, probably more than you’ve loved any other person in your life.”
“I—”
“And he loves you, but refuses to admit it…to himself or anyone else. Yes, he’s a grown man, but at times, he’s still that lost little boy desperate for even the slightest show of love, the one who cries himself to sleep because he doesn’t think he deserves to be loved. Prove him wrong. Show him he is.” She holds my gaze a moment longer, her eyes pleading with me to love Julian like he deserves. Do I love him? I don’t want to admit the answer. It will only make tonight more difficult than it already is.
“Come on, Cinderella. Let’s get you to the ball,” she says, ripping me out of my thoughts.
“Except Prince Charming won’t be hunting me down afterward to see if the glass slipper fits.”
“Cinderella didn’t think that would happen, either, but that didn’t stop her from enjoying herself. Don’t let the knowledge of what tomorrow brings stop you.”
With a nod, I silently follow her out of my room, walking this path for the final time. Earlier in the summer, I’d given myself the same pep talk Camille just did. It was easier then, back when we still had time.
As I round the corner into the formal living room, my Christian Louboutin heels clicking on the wood flooring, a figure in a black tuxedo turns from peering out the windows, Julian’s gaze settling on me. On a hard swallow, I blink back a new wave of tears. My throat constricts over the idea that this is the last time he’ll ever look at me in amazement as he soaks in the dress Dana selected for the evening’s festivities. Even when we were just scheduled to attend a casual barbecue or beach bonfire, he still had a way of admiring me as if I were bathed in priceless diamonds.
“Hey,” I say with a smile, cutting through the silence.
“Guinevere…” His voice catches as he says my name. He clears his throat, taking slow steps toward me. Just like all those weeks ago, he grabs my hand in his, spinning me around to get a better view from every angle before tugging my body against his. He places his free hand on the small of my back, and I drape my arm over his shoulder, toying with a few tendrils of hair that hang over his jacket collar. We remain still for what feels like an eternity, but in reality is only a second. Our eyes lock, midnight blue to my emerald green. Neither one of us utters a single word. There’s no need. In this silence, in this moment, in this space, we say everything we want to.
A low hum cuts through the quiet. It’s a familiar song that will always remind me of the moment I finally succumbed to my desire and kissed him. He squeezes my hand, then leads me around the room. Unlike our first weekend together, when dancing with him felt stilted and awkward, we move with practiced grace.
Julian begins to sing the lyrics to “Moon River”, husky and deep, and it takes every bit of willpower I possess not to burst into tears. I’ve never truly paid attention to the words before. It was just a song that reminded me of one of my favorite movies about two drifters who were wrong for each other, but so right at the same time. Just like Julian and me. But we weren’t meant to see the world together. Our rainbows’ end isn’t the same, and I’m not sure anything can change that.
We slow our steps as the song comes to an untimely end and we stand in place, our hands still clasped together, our bodies a breath away. If this is our last private moment together, I want to savor it. The way he holds me, admires me, cares for me.
Too soon, he releases me from his hold. “Guinevere, I…”
“Yes?” I respond, hope building in my voice.
“I…”
“Yes?” I rest my hand on his cheek, his clean-shaven skin soft against mine. I wish I knew he planned to shave. I would have loved one last kiss with his scruff scraping against my lips, jarring and bruising, yet making me feel more alive than anything else in my life. Never again. The thought rips at my heartstrings.
“I, uh…” He licks his lips, blinking rapidly. “I got you something.”
“You didn’t have to get me anything.” I drop my hold on him. “You already bought me a wardrobe that could probably pay for the first year’s rent at the apartment of my choosing in the city,” I joke.
“You’re not going to sell it, are you?” he asks frantically. “Because if that’s what it takes for you to afford your own place, I’ll buy you an apartment. I—”
“It’s a lovely gesture,” I interrupt. “But not necessary. Now that I’ve had the opportunity to revamp my piece on August Laurent, at least I have a decent shot at that promotion. It’ll be nice to have my own bathroom again.”
“And a door.”
“Yes. And a door,” I laugh, grateful for the short reprieve of tension. “It’s amazing how we take those little things for granted until we no longer have them. I’ll never take doors for granted again.”
He smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.
“So…”
“Right.” He spins, heading toward the wet bar. After retrieving a square white box, he walks back to me with a smile on his lips. “This is for you.”
“What is it?” Taking it from his outstretched hand, I feel the weight, knowing it must contain more than just a t-shirt, as the size of the box would normally indicate.
“Open it.”
Eyeing him suspiciously, my heart thumps in my chest. With trembling fingers, I pull at the red ribbon. When I lift the cover, I gasp at what I see inside. It’s another box, but that’s not what surprises me. It’s the Tiffany’s blue shade that steals my breath.
“I was planning on getting you something from Cartier, but I figured Tiffany’s would have more meaning.”
“It could be an empty box and it would be infinitely better than even the most expensive piece you could get from Cartier,” I gush.
“Phew,” he exhales, swiping at his brow. “That’s a relief, because it really is just an empty box.”
Laughing, I shake my head and pull out the square blue box, placing the other one on a nearby table. “No, it’s not.”