You never told her how you felt. Maybe if you had, she would have considered it.
Instead of risking rejection from Sophie, Michael had dated Mirielle Desmarais. It had been years since he had thought of her, yet he’d given Mirielle more in their few silly months together than he’d ever given Sophie. He’d taken her to Orlisia for Christmas. Made love to her. Bought her pretty, meaningless presents. And in the end, she’d left him for Kyle because she’d known all along that his heart belonged to another.
Mirielle had told him in their long, final argument that he was a damn prideful fool for letting Sophie Swenda slip through his fingers. She had been right.
After Sophie had told him, in a casual phone conversation, that she’d lost her virginity to Matthew Cain the year after GYL ended, Michael had become so enraged with jealousy that he’d gotten into a drunken bar fight with a stranger. His Harvard classmates had had to pull him off the other man, and he’d been lucky to avoid being charged.
He hadn’t even known she was a virgin in their year together.
Yet Michael had lost his virginity years before GYL, when he was sixteen, to a girl whose name he could now barely remember. It had been of little consequence, just a rite of passage that every teenage boy went through. He’d told Sophie about it on the road, and they’d laughed about it. She hadn’t thrown a childish fit of temper because she was not his first lover.
Through all of his heartbreaking carelessness, she loved him. Michael had taken so much for granted for so many years. And still she loved him. Loved him enough to risk her life for him.
“Mikael.”
His head shot up out of his hands. Her eyes were glassy with fever, and Michael doubted she was fully aware. He moved to sit on the edge of the bed.
“Yes, mana mila,” he said softly around the lump in his throat.
“Am I? Am I really?”
“Are you what?”
“You’ve always called me that…mana mila. ‘My love.’ Am I really your love, Mikael?” He stared at her, wondering if she could read his mind as well as his soul.
“Yes.” Michael reached for her warm hands. “You are my love. My one and only love. You always have been and always will be.” He felt tears rising in his eyes. “I love you. Do you know that? I love you.”
“I know,” she said in a singsong voice. “I love you too, Mikael. I always have.” The tears brimmed over and ran down his face at her words. “It’s okay.” She switched to Orlisian. “I am here now. I will not leave. We are together now.” They were the same words he remembered from his dreams when he’d been in the grip of his own fever. The tears fell faster, and he knelt beside the bed, holding her hands as he cried.
-
Thirty-six hours later, Michael remained at her bedside. The fever had broken several hours earlier, and she’d slept peacefully all night. He sat back in the rickety chair and rubbed his eyes, exhausted.
He was so tired he couldn’t think straight. Over the last couple of days, he’d slept in short stretches and only because he knew he would be of no use to Sophie if he relapsed into pneumonia while she was still in the grips of the dysentery.
Michael kicked off his shoes and fell into bed beside her. Now he could sleep. Still, he wound his arm around her and pulled her close, just in case.
-