I cock my head. “What makes you think I still want to go with you?”
He reaches into his jacket pocket and holds out a small envelope. “They’re your present. Your tickets—both of them. Go by yourself. Take a friend. Don’t go at all.” He meets my eyes. “It’s completely up to you.”
I keep my mouth closed, forcing myself to say nothing. Instead, I run my tongue over my teeth, then reach out and snag the envelope. I tuck it into my purse, then walk around him to get to my door. The porch is small, and he doesn’t move, so I brush up against him as I pull out my keys. Immediately, I feel that shock of awareness, and it seems all the more powerful because I don’t want to feel it. I don’t want to want him. Not right now, when I’m feeling so raw.
“Jane.” His voice is as gentle as the hand he places on my shoulder.
I shrug it off and open the door. I go inside, but I leave the door open. He can follow or not.
It’s after noon, and I feel completely justified in having a glass of wine. I find one of my favorite Napa cabernets and pour a very full glass.
Dallas is standing on the other side of my kitchen pass-through. “A glass of that would be very welcome right about now.”
I frown. “I’m trying to decide if I’m even letting you stay.”
“Jane. Please. Let me—”
“What?” Fresh anger bubbles through me. “Change the past? Take it all back?”
“Explain. Just let me explain.”
“Explain why you fucked her—yeah, I know you didn’t actually. But for you, you did.”
“Explain why I didn’t tell you.” He looks so lost. So sad. “And, yes, why I was with her. I just want—”
“What?”
He shakes his head, looking not at me but somewhere over my shoulder. “Never mind. I’ll give you time.”
He starts to head toward the door and suddenly the thought of him leaving seems to cut through me, slicing me to ribbons. “Wait!”
He stops, his back to me. I see the tension in his shoulders, the tightness in his back. And when he turns to face me, I see the hope on his face.
I look down at the ground. I want to hold on to my anger, but it’s starting to diffuse. Still there, but now so hard to grasp.
I clear my throat. “If you go, I’ll end up drinking the whole damn bottle by myself.” I pour him a glass and set it on the pass-through. I nod at it. “You can stay for that long.”
“All right, then.” He takes a tiny sip. “I’ll drink slow.”
I almost laugh, but I manage to hold it in.
I stay in the kitchen and he stays on the other side of the bar. I like it that way because the longer he’s here, the more I want him to hold me. I’m hurting—and even though it’s Dallas who hurt me, he’s still the one I crave to give me comfort. Whose arms I want around me while I close my eyes and draw strength.
I’m not sure what that says—am I that screwed up? Or am I just in love?
I take another sip of my wine and busy myself with wiping down my already clean counter. “So go ahead,” I say. “You have an explanation. Tell me.”
“It’s fucked up,” he says, and this time I have to laugh. Because honestly, where he and I are concerned, when isn’t it?
“When I met her not long after she and Colin got married, I was feeling so empty. You were out of my life, forever I thought. I was raw. And I was attracted to her.”
I wince, and he sees it.
“I screwed up by not telling you the truth before. I’m not going to pull my punches now.”
“No,” I say. “I don’t want you to. I just—she was married.”
“Nothing happened. But we both felt it.”
“Well, something happened eventually.”
He nods. “After they broke up. We—well, yeah. I slept with her.”
I feel my insides twist. Because this isn’t like Fiona or Christine or any of the others. With Adele, there was more. And I’m jealous. I’m so incredibly jealous.
“I thought you only did one-or two-night stands.”
His smile is thin, and I know he can hear the jealousy in my voice.
“Adele was an odd exception, that’s for sure. She—oh, hell, Jane. She knows about us.”
My eyes grow wide. “You told her?”
He shakes his head. “No. But she’s a therapist, remember? She heard the way I talked about you. And because of Colin she knew that we’d both been kidnapped. She figured it out. She knew I was still in love with you. And she—she was edgy.”
“In bed,” I say. “She—”
“Understood what I needed, probably even more than I did.”
My mouth is dry, and I’m not sure if I feel sick or if I feel relieved that he had someone when he couldn’t—wouldn’t—have me.
“Did you love her?”
He looks at me as if I’ve completely missed the point. “Love her? Oh, god, Jane, no. She was the only one I could be honest with. The only one who knew my core truth. There was sex, yes. But sex with Adele was never about her.”
His eyes lock on mine. “Don’t you get it? Sex with Adele was always about you.”