Page 139 of Bloom

I hesitate before asking, “Are you sure?”

“Completely.”

He sounds it. He really, really sounds it. “But it hasn’t been that long.”

“Does that matter?”

“Of course, it does.”

“Why?”

“Because…” I'm at a loss. “Because it does. It’s too quick.”

“Based on what, Caroline?”

I have no idea. I don’t know what I’m saying, why I’m arguing. It,he, just feels so unbelievable. The way I feel is unbelievable. That he could possibly be feeling the same…

Unbelievable.

Terrifying, too.

“I was sure I loved Jackson,” I find myself saying quietly. “I was sure he loved me. And it turned out I was wrong, and it was horrible, and I really, really don’t wanna be wrong about this. I don’t think… I don’t think I could handle that.”

“I’m not Jackson.”

“I know that.”

“Then don’t compare us, honey.”

“That’s not—”That’s not what I’m doing, I start to say, except it is. It’s exactly what I’m doing. It’s what I always do. Compare what I lost to what I could lose. It’s a horrifically unhealthy cycle, I know that, and yet I do it anyway. I can't stop it. My headhurtswith how hard I try, but I can’t. I whisper, “I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“That’s okay.” Lifting our joint hands, he maneuvers them so he can slip his arm around my shoulders and tug me into his side. “We can take things slow, okay? I’m not in a rush. I just wanna be with you.”

At least, for all my faults and inadequacies, I can admit, “I want that too.”

“Good.” Lips brush my unblemished temple, and then he tilts my head to the side so he can kiss the other one too. Against it, he grumbles, “You said youweresure you loved Jackson. What changed your mind?”

He sounds like he knows the answer—he sounds like a smug little bastard—but I humor him anyway. “I didn’t feel like this.”

“Hm.” He chuffs proudly, smiling as he presses another lingering kiss to my skin. “I know exactly what you mean.”

We sit there for a while, holding each other. Only when I try and fail to stifle a yawn does he stand and pull me up with him, patting my butt and urging me into the house. I’m halfway to the bathroom before I realize he hasn’t followed, and by the time I retrace my steps, he’s walking inside and placing something on the kitchen counter.

A box.

A cardboard box.

A cardboard box with her handwriting on it.

I already know what’s in it, but I peek inside anyway, I gasp anyway, I feel my heart jump to my throat anyway.

“I grabbed it when I was at yours,” the man who says he loves me, who wraps his arms around me, whispers. “Knew you’d want them.”

When I move to pick up one of the surviving glass flowers, he lets me go. He walks away as I grasp something I could never, ever replace, letting me have a moment alone that I don't want.

I don’t want to take things slow either, I realize.

My whole life, I’ve been taking things slow. Approaching everything with caution. I don’t want to do that with Hunter. I don’t want to waste this, to lose time, because I’m scared.

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