Page 118 of Things I Overshared
His voice is scratchy, like he didn’t sleep at all. “We shouldn’t have done this.Ishouldn’t have.”
“Done what?” I whisper. I am frozen, my heart racing across the suite, doing laps and threatening to explode. I cannot bear this. I can’t.
“I warned you I couldn’t give you everything, couldn’t be the man for you.”
“I don’t want everything.”
He doesn’t look at me as he argues. “You do. You will. And I can’t do it.”
“What does that even mean, everything? This has been deep and real, and you know it. Now you’re saying . . . what? You don’t want a future, a life together? Is that what you’re saying? This was a fling?” He stares down at the table, and his jaw twitches. “Just say it. You what? You don’t want to get married?”
His jaw twitches again, and finally he looks up at me. He is as cold as he’s ever been. “Not . . . to you.” The words are as rough as rocks coming out of his beautiful mouth. Rocks thrown straight to my chest, to my soul. It explains why the air leaves my lungs, because I’ve just been stoned. My head shakes, involuntarily. How could he have changed so much overnight? What the hell is happening here?
“I . . . I don’t believe you.”
“I wouldn’t lie to you.”
“No, just to yourself.” My voices raises, but I can’t help it. “So you’re back to being a coward again? Afraid of what’s happening between us? Afraid of what you feel for me?”
“You . . .” He pauses. “You warned me just like I warned you. You said it yourself . . . your sunshiny optimism, the constant sharing, the romance, the drama between us. It’s . . . ”
Don’t say it, don’t say it, don’t you dare say it—
“Too much.”
I swallow.
I clench my fists and straighten my spine.
Every tiny move is physically painful.
But I am not too much. We are not too much—he’s just too scared of this, of us, of his complicated, messy emotions. And I’m not listening to any more of whatever hurtful garbage he throws out to save himself.
“Get out,” I finally say.
He stands, and for a second, there’s a flash of something on his face: remorse, longing, pain, a shred of humanity. But it’s instantly gone.
“Take all the time you need. I changed my flight to tomorrow.” He moves to the suite door and turns before he leaves. “I’m sorry.”
He shuts the door, and I run. I run through the suite, to my door, into my closet, and shut the door. I don’t bother with the light. As soon as the door closes and I know he can’t hear me, I weep.
Chapter 36
Having an afternoon flight was helpful. I didn’t want to be in that suite anymore, and I had a plane to catch. Numb and tearless, I threw everything into bags. I didn’t text my sisters, didn’t call Sadie or Nicole. I washed my face and put on enough makeup to feel like I didn’t look as dead as I felt. I called for a bellhop, texted Charlie, and made my own way to the airport.
I slept through most of the flight, when I wasn’t nauseated or crying. Toward the end of the flight, they brought the breakfast boxes out. I opened it, trying to muster some desire to eat. I wasn’t hungry, but maybe the cinnamon rolls . . . roll. Cinnamon roll, singular. So on our flight to London weeks ago,hehad given me his, taken it out of his meal box and put it into mine, saving it for me, for when I woke up.
I can’t eat.
I can’t even cry.
I texted Skye that there was no need to meet me at the airport or at home. She assumed I’d be with Emerson, and I didn’t bother to correct her. When I arrived at my empty apartment, I was actually relieved to be alone. I couldn’t talk about it.
I showered and I thought. I unpacked and I thought and over-thought. I did laundry and I replayed the entire trip from start to finish. I went over every good and terrible word, look, and touch Emerson ever gave me. I tried to eat, but mostly I just thought. And all my thoughts led me to one conclusion.
He lied.
He’s lying.
