Fifteen minutes later we’re sitting across from each other, the only people in the small place. It’s late and most people are on to decaf by this time. Last time we were here wasn’t much better. It seems to be where all horrible conversations start and end.
“I didn’t know the guy, but that’s really . . . shit.” He grabs a sugar packet and shakes it back and forth.
“He was my friend. We knew each other when we were little. Jackson was friends with him, too, back then.”
This is when I should tell him I knew. Maybe he’d understand.
You should let him go.
You’re right.
He reaches across the table and holds my hand. “I’m here for you, you know that, right?”
I nod, but avoid his eyes. I can’t see the pain when I tell him goodbye. I flip the edge of the plastic drink menu, then push it back. Nerves build, and I want to release them and scream until I don’t have a voice anymore.
He quirks an eyebrow. “What is it? Are you okay?” He lays the sugar packet down on the table and gives me a thoughtful look.
“Nothing. I’m fine.” It’s my stock answer. I say it so much I should have it tattooed on my wrist.
He regards me carefully. “No, you’re not. What’s going on? It’s something other than what happened with Dean. I can tell.”
I let his hand go and flick my menu again, slapping it on the table. “You can tell? We’ve known each other for a month,” I snap.
He winces in surprise at my words.
“I’m sorry. I mean . . . .” This is harder than I thought. I don’t know if I can say the words to him. I don’t want to say them.
You love him. Do it.
“I think we should take some time apart,” I blurt out before I can change my mind.
His eyes widen a little but he doesn’t look surprised. “No.”
“Um, it’s . . . not really a request.”
“I’m not letting you push me away.” He reaches for my hand again, but I slide it off the table before he can touch it. He tries to mask his hurt, but I know him now. I know his smiles and I’ve named his pain. I feel his heartbeat burning in my skin and sense his laugh before it happens. “You don’t have a say in this.”
“I’m part of this, too. You can’t shut me out. I know what this is about. Dean didn’t—”
“Didn’t what? Mean to do what he did? He wasn’t as sick as I am? Come on, Colter.”
“I know you’re scared but I can help. I can—”
“Save me?” I laugh, but it’s not funny. “You want me to get better? You have to let me do this,” I lie. It’s so hard to do this, watching the depths in his eyes. “I’m wrong for you. We both know it,” I whisper.
“I’m in love with you. Not the high school kind, the real kind. The kind even Nicholas Sparks couldn’t put into words.”
I close my eyes and fight the barrage of tears that want to flood out. “You knew this was going to end one way or the other. I’m doing this for you.”
“No. You’re doing this for you.” He’s grasping the table so hard his knuckles have turned white. “Don’t do this.” He looks down at his fingers and loosens his grip, tilting his head to the side with a sincere, frantic expression. “We can slow things down. I can . . . I don’t know, call you less, if you want, just don’t shut me out of your life.” He sounds desperate and his breath is accelerating with each word.
I swallow the bile that slides up my throat. “I have to. I’m sorry.” I shove my menu to the edge of the table and get up.
He grabs my arm. “You love me, too. I know you do. You can’t lie to me. I can see you, the real you.”
I want to say it. I do. But I have to say something that will get him to leave me alone. Forever. Something I should have said a long time ago. I paste on a serious face, fighting the tears that want to burst. “I can’t be the one to redeem you from what happened to Ryan. That’s not love.” I squirm from his grasp and run out of the restaurant and into the moonlight. I don’t look back.
The moon’s rays coat my skin as I drive home. I roll down the windows and let my hair fly around my face. I swipe away the millionth tear I’ve shed in the last half hour. Leaving him is the hardest thing I’ve ever done and I don’t know how I’m going to make it. I have to last four more days. It was so stupid to fall for him. It was always going to end. He had to have known that. Did he really think he’d change my mind by getting me involved in Atticus’s dance, by telling me he loves me?