I’m not sure I could live with his pity.
Jenny drives the truck behind Stanton’s parents’ house, up to the entrance of the barn. Before I get out, I turn to her. “It was really nice meeting you, Jenny. You have a beautiful daughter, and I hope . . . I really hope your wedding day is perfect.”
Her head tilts. “You won’t be around for the weddin’ tomorrow, will you?”
I confirm her suspicions with the shake of my head.
She nods, understanding. “I hope . . . well, I hope you come back here one day, Sofia, and when you do, I hope you’re smilin’.”
Then she wraps her arms around me and gives me a hug. It’s warm and kind, and above all—genuine.
? ? ?
Packing takes longer than I’d thought. Why, why did I bring so much? Three bags down, two to go. I grab the last of my T-shirts from the drawer and turn to place them in the open suitcase on the bed. But I freeze when I hear the hoarse, fraught voice from the doorway.
“You’re leavin’?”
Did I actually think I’d be able to pack and leave town without facing him? Without having this conversation? Stupid Sofia.
I don’t look at him—if I do, I’ll disintegrate into a blubbery mass. I need time—distance.
“I have to go home. I’m so behind, a lot of work to catch up on . . .”
He moves in front of me. I stare at his chest, as it rises and falls beneath the soft cotton T-shirt. He takes the clothes from my hands. “You’re not goin’ anywhere, until you talk to me.”
I close my eyes, feeling my pulse throb frantically in my neck.
“What happened, Sofia?”
Against my will, my gaze rises, meeting his. It swims with concern, overflows with confusion . . . with affection and caring.
But it’s not enough.
“What happened? I fell in love with you.” The words come out in a whisper—everything I feel for him a sharp, rigid thorn lodged in my throat. And the pain that he doesn’t feel the same is a noose cinching tighter and tighter. “I love everything about you. I love watching you in court—the way you speak, the way you move. I love how you scrape your lip when you’re trying to think of what to say. I love your voice, I love your hands and the way they touch me. I love . . . the way you look at your daughter, I love how you say my name.” My voice shatters at the end, and my eyes close, releasing a flood.
“No, baby, don’t cry,” he begs.
His hands rise to my face, but I step back, afraid the contact will completely break me. The words rush out. “I know that isn’t what this is for you. And I tried to ignore it, to push it away. But it just hurt so much to see you with. . .”
His head is bowed from my pain. “Sofia, I’m sorry . . . just let me . . .”
I shake my head and squeeze my eyes closed again. “Don’t be sorry—it’s not your fault. I have to just . . . get over it. I will. I can’t . . . I can’t be with you anymore that way, Stanton. I know you’ll be hurting from Jenny . . . But—”
“That’s not what I meant! Slow down, please. Listen to me.”
But if I stop to listen, I’ll never get it all out. He’ll never understand. And I meant what I said—I don’t want to lose him.
“We’ll be friends again. This won’t come between us. We can go back—”
I never finish the words. His mouth covers mine, cutting them off, swallowing them whole. He grasps my face, pulling me to him—touching me like he never has before. With desperation, like he’ll die if he has to let me go.
His desire for me is a palpable, throbbing ache between us—and I submerge myself in it, willing to drown. His fingertips are hot on my skin, scorching enough to scar. And I hope they do. I yearn for remembrance. Proof that I was here, that this is what we felt. That even for a moment . . . we were real.