And the way he says it has my curiosity piqued, my mind clearing some to briefly wonder how a civilian could be in on this meeting, but my thoughts are lost to the feeling deep down that I want nowhere near him right now. We may have loved the same woman, but that doesn’t mean that I have to like him. In fact, it is completely opposite from the way I feel. As soon as I catch my breath, I want the fuck out of here because I can’t breathe. Can’t think in here. I don’t want to believe the lies I was just told in this room… because they are lies. She can’t be gone. This can’t be happening.
How can her own husband make that statement? That would mean they’ve talked about me.
But he said she loved me. It’s the one thing I’ve wanted to hear more than anything, but at the same time right now, I’m not sure I can handle it.
“Go to hell,” I grit out between breaths, starting to push myself up because I have a plane to catch, and if I catch it, then I can run away and pretend like this meeting never happened and that she’s still alive and I’m still going to come back in a few days and fight like hell to win her over. To make her understand that what we have is real and true and worth it.
“We weren’t married,” John whispers ever so softly. I stop midway to standing and look over to him for the first time as my heart stutters in my chest. His eyes mirror the grief in mine, the loss burning bright, but they are also saying something else that I can’t quite understand. “Can we talk?” he asks, using his chin to indicate a doorway over to his right.
I stare at him, wanting to know and yet afraid to know more. But I follow John inside and shut the door behind us, leery, uncomfortable and overwhelmed because so many things have been thrown at me that I can’t comprehend any of them.
“Sit?” he asks, and I just lean a shoulder against the wall. I’ve had enough things knock me to my knees right now; I don’t think there’s much more that can. Besides, I fear that once I process this all, once it all sinks in, I won’t be able to move anyway, so sitting? No, thanks.
“What I’m about to tell you is classified and could get me fired and you in trouble, but you deserve to know the truth.” I just stare at the ground, my eyes shut, and fingers pinching the bridge of my nose because I’m so afraid of hearing what’s next and at the same time a small part of me holds on to some hope that he’s going to tell me that was all a farce out there. That Beaux’s alive. That when I open the door, she’s going to be standing there with that smirk on her face and green eyes looking for me. “I’m Dane Culver. Nice to meet you.”
My head whips up at his extended hand. What the fuck? “Wha…?” I don’t even bother finishing the word or shaking his hand.
“Beaux was my partner. I’m an agent too. Our marriage was a cover.”
“Wait a minute, so —”
“So that means how she felt for you was real. She loved you.” His voice is soft, sympathetic, but all I can hear are the words “She loved you.”
I sag against the wall, another tsunami of emotions hitting the wave that’s already ebbing because I can’t focus on anything, my thoughts splintering into a million pieces as the questions try to bubble up to the surface. My hands are cradling my head as I double over because if I thought the news of her death was devastating before, it’s crippling now. Because now that I know she wasn’t married, hadn’t cheated on her husband, it’s like the veil of guilt that shrouded around the love I felt for her has been lifted and those feelings are a hundred times more intense and a thousand times more devastating.
“Oh. My. God.” They are the only words I can say, and I repeat them over and over as all of the things I doubted and questioned and berated myself for dissipate, so that what I thought I really lost, I really did lose.