Page 93 of Almost Perfect
“It’s not like I had to be coerced,” I said and stood. I’d dived in, motivated by attraction and emotion and a newfound freedom to actually live life.
Her shoulders dropped. “I’ve been lying to myself, too. And I can’t pretend like I regret it, because I needed to believe I could have something separate from what my life was before. But I am sorry if I hurt you, because I genuinely never meant for that to happen.”
“Something separate.Like a side piece? Like a secret you keep from your fans and your real life?”
“No, not at all—”
“I specifically said I didn’t want something casual. That whatever happened, it meant something to me.” I could hardly think straight, my mind had flatlined. Hadn’t I been clear?
Had I?
Her eyes filled with tears, but she staved them off somehow, gritting her teeth. “It did for me too.”
I grabbed her hand, wanting to console her and shake her and stop this.
“I don’t want this to be—” I huffed out a breath, working to calm my rioting thoughts. What could I say now? How could I erase the last few minutes that felt so much like an end when everything with Calla up to this point had felt like a beginning? “I don’t want you to leave.”
She pressed her lips together in a regretful frown. “But I should go.”
Her words circled back to me.I’m sorry if I hurt you. Like she wasn’t convinced she had? Or like I seemed unaffected by her admitting that I’d been some kind of emotional vacation from her real life?
But then, she was moving. Gathering her things, slipping her feet into her shoes, and leaning up to kiss my cheek. The press of her lips shredded me—I wouldn’t be surprised to find marks there later.
“Let me walk you over there, at least.”
This—whatever it had been—might’ve been dissolving as we spoke, but that didn’t mean I had to be a jerk. And it’d buy me a minute, a chance to find the right words, to ask the right questions.
“No. You stay. Do those dishes from dessert.” She tried for a smile.
“They’ll keep. Let me—"
“I’m sorry, Wyatt. I am.” She turned to the entryway, and said, almost like it was for herself, though I heard it, “I think I wanted this a little too much.”
And then, she slipped out the front door, closing it gently behind her. I pulled it back open, the impulse to run after her warring with the knowledge that I should give her the space she asked for.
So I stood, watching her move through the night toward the cottage, then slipping inside. She must’ve moved farther in because the front windows didn’t brighten with the glow of lights.
It matched the moment—me watching her go and seeing nothing. We were at opposite ends of things, having been wrapped together so tightly just hours ago, now separated by distance and winter chill and the brutal reality that she couldn’t be here.
And any hopes I’d had that we could be together past this little escape from LA she’d taken were foolishness. The misery of pursuing something I actually wanted, of getting my hopes up and allowing my feelings to run wild, settled in. A beating heart hurt so much worse than a dead one when it got cut open.
FORTY-ONE
Calla
Isat slumped against the door in the dark for at least a half hour. I couldn’t think, couldn’t figure out what I was supposed to do now.
A while later, once my back ached and my leg was numb from the hard floor, I summoned the will to move. I went through the motions of brushing my teeth, changing into pajamas, and lying in bed. It was all so similar to how life had felt before I’d ever come to Silverton.
Quiet. Empty. Desperately sad.
And the second I let myself admit that, I cried and cried and cried.
And then I accepted that I couldn’t stay here. The minute I did move from my wretched little spot, my mind replayed every interaction I’d had with Wyatt. The kitchen counter where he’d stood the very first night in his ridiculous, sexy chaps. The sink reminding me of his distaste for my mess, which came more from genuine discomfort than judgment, I’d eventually realized. The bed, where I hadn’t slept in well over a week because the last two nights I’d spent in Silverton, I’d been at Wyatt’s house, and the very last night, in his bed.
I woke early and scoured the place. The cleaning service would deal with the remaining food in the fridge and small bin of trash, but they’d been here since I’d left last time. Everything else was already spotless—all I had to do was empty the drawers and pack. So I did.
It was Quinn who pulled up at nine this morning. Bless her, she’d dropped her daughter off at school, then basically turned right around and made the drive up to get me. I hauled my giant suitcase that had stayed here and the smaller carry-on with me and tucked them into the back of her sturdy-looking SUV. She nestled my guitar into the back seat before sliding into the driver’s side.
