Page 55 of The Worst Kind of Promise
On repeat. Every minute of every day since he said them.
“I fucked up. I know I did. I shouldn’t have been so harsh. You didn’t deserve any of it, and if I’d found out someone else had ever treated you the way I did, I would’ve killed them. I was trying to make things easier for me, but it only made things harder for you in the process. Imadethat choice. I was the selfish asshole who ruined the only good thing I had in my life.”
As much as I hate looking at him, I can see the regret in the strained lines of his face, in the blue-black smudges under his eyes.
Tears prick the backs of my eyes. My rage has liquified into sadness, and I can feel my body melting alongside it. “What am I supposed to say, Kit? I can’t do this back and forth with you.”
“I don’t expect you to forgive me, okay? I just needed you to know the truth. I needed you to know how I felt.” His stare never wavers, the gentle tone of his voice like susurrations through a grove of trees. I feel it brush my skin, and my body betrays me by wanting to go to him, to burrow into those strong arms of his.
“If you give me the time, I’ll prove to you how much you mean to me. I promise. No more back and forth. The real thing.”
“The real thing?” I squeak out, my elbow knocking into my silverware by accident as I layer my hands on the table. They’re inches away from Kit’s. I’ve waited four years for the real thing with him.
“Whatever you want. Coffee dates or hand-holding in the dark. Goodnight kisses or walks in the park. Me trying to impress you with my shitty cooking, us watching movies in bed together. I’m willing to give you whatever you want, Faye, because…”
“Because?”
I’m mad at him. I’m mad at him. I’m…tired of being mad at him. A second chance. That’s all he’s asking for. And I know Kit’s a good person. What if I was the one asking for a second chance? I’d want him to consider, right? Everyone makes mistakes. I would know; I’ve made plenty.
He brushes a wayward tear off my face, his touch fracturing my thoughts. No matter what narrative I give him—if he’s the hero or the villain of my story—his touch willalwayslight up my heart. Rays of sun that shine from the inside out, through the barrier of my skin, into the world as a blinding display of color.
He inhales shakily, unsure if he should continue with his train of thought. The anticipation is making me sick. I can’t read the emotion welling in his eyes.
Before I’m given the chance to say anything, seven words stop my heart. Seven words that now take priority over the mindless excuses he gave me at the party. Seven words that drop all the way to my soul, scaring the darkness away, casting a soft afterglow in every corner of my body.
“Because you mean the world to me.”
I don’t know what to say.
His hand covers my own, a nonverbal message that tells me he means it with every fiber of his being.
I thought I knew what he was going to say. I thought it might’ve been an L-word gesture, but it wasn’t. I mean, I guess I’m not that surprised. Love is complicated. Love requires trust and the ability to be vulnerable. I’ve been vulnerable before, and it left scars soul deep.
If I give him a second chance, this is a no U-turn kind of street. Once I career down this road, I can’t go back. I’ll hit a dead end. Am I willing to risk it all for Kit? Risk my heart again?
“I miss you. So much.” Authenticity hangs off every word. It’s there in the deep brown of his eyes, a window to a mind I’ve wanted to live inside for years.
“I miss you too,” I whisper, my eyes refilling with tears, my chest aching from the sobs trying to escape.
Kit’s thumb brushes my knuckles. “If you let me, I want to earn your trust back.”
“I don’t know.”
“Please, Princess. Please let me make things right. I can’t stand what I’ve done to you. Fuck, I deserve to wallow in my own self-hatred, but you shouldn’t have to question how much you mean to me. You want me to chew through my goddamn leash to get to you? I will. You want me to get on my knees and beg? I will. You want me to come clean to Hayes and take the blame for all of this? I will.”
I stare at a fleck of spaghetti sauce that the cleaning team missed in their tornado of towels and wipes, closemouthed.
“I don’t care how long it takes. Make me work for it. I played hockey for eleven years before making it to the NHL. I’m willing to wait even longer for you, because you’re a far better prize than going pro. You can hate me all you want, but what I won’t have is you questioning how amazing you are just because I fucked up.”
“I—”
Our original waiter has somehow materialized right next to me, unfazed by the fact that the two girls at the table have been replaced with a giant man in a skimpy tank top. “We’re so sorry. Your dishes should be out within twenty minutes. There was a hiccup with our presiding chef.”
“Is everything okay?” I ask, exchanging a worried glance with Kit.
“Yes. He’s quite alright. His finger has been successfully located, and he’s on his way to the hospital as we speak,” the spindly teenager says, smiling at me like he didn’t just use the word “finger” in a sentence regarding food. He shuffles off before I can shake him down for more answers.
Kit and I speak at the same time.
