Page 102 of The Only Heart that Matters

The man is a priceless work of art.

And he was almost mine.

Pushing off the counter, he slides his phone into his back pocket before picking up my to-do list. Pinching it between his thumb and forefinger, he waves it in the air. “Tell me something, Mia.”

“What’s that?” I manage around the panic strangling me.

“Why’d you cross off talking to me about the invite to your work thing? Because I got the email and I’ll be there with bells on.”

This is not how I wanted this to go down.

“Why do you have my list?”

“You left it on the counter.”

“So, you read it?”

“Not the point, Goof.”

“What is your point?”

“Why did you scribble out talking to me about the invite?”

Shit.

“Does it have anything to do with the last item on your list?” he asks, leaving my list on the counter where he found it and crossing the kitchen.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

“Babe, you know you can tell me anything.” He’s standing a foot away from me.

Babe.

I don’t deserve his term of endearment.

“I don’t know how,” I admit. Because no matter how many times I’ve rehearsed what I need to say in my head, I don’t know how to tell him.

“Sure you do. You trust me, then open that pretty little mouth of yours and lay it on me.”

He’s trying to keep things lighthearted.

It’s a futile effort.

“Even if it means it will change everything for everyone?”

“Your secret is safe with me.”

“You don’t get it. Once I tell you, it will change everything. And not just for you and me.”

“Mia, I know you’re scared, but I got you.”

“You’ll hate me.”

“Why don’t you let me decide who I hate?”

Rip the band-aid off. It’s the only way.

I memorize the way he’s looking at me right now, etching it into my mind.

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