Page 19 of Falling Into Forever
Stay strong. Telling him the truth won’t mend anything. I can’t give him false hope that the darkness will fade, or that I’ll ever be able to live without all the sadness that chases me.
Squaring my shoulders and lifting my chin, I force a lie out of my mouth. “Because it’s the only name I could write in cursive.” The words scratch at my throat like they’re being run through a cheese grater. He’ll believe it, though, because he spent hours watching me doodle his name.
My stomach plummets with his shoulders. “At least now I know you’re still willing to lie straight to my face.” His words—laced with disappointment—hit like a wrecking ball, but all I can do is shake my head.
He stares at me like he’s unearthing all my secrets one by one. I can’t hold myself together much longer, and he seems to understand that when he nods.
“Your sass is threatening to take everything away from you. Your interview was messed up, and I can help make it right. But I won’t tolerate any more lies. Not even ones you think are for my own good.” That look says he knows what I’m doing.
He’s been moving closer as he talks, and it makes the air too thick to breathe.
“It’s what I do,” he says like a promise. “I overhaul images and public perceptions. All you have to do is say yes.” He stares down at me, and all those messy emotions bubble to the surface before I can lock them down.
I drop my face into my hands so he can’t read me. He was always too good at that, but I can’t let him. Not now. So, I dig deep and reach for the anger I need. Anger is safer than admitting that I don’t fit into the real world anymore, and I couldn’t even if I tried. If he stays, he’ll try to fix me, and it will break him when he can’t. Doesn’t he understand that? There is no instant remedy for what ails me.
Even with years of therapy behind me, it’s a lifelong process.
Oh, God. I’m really messed up. I’m going to be one of those cranky old ladies. A spinster? A cat lady? I can picture it now. Me in my bookstore with cats roaming free and yelling at customers not to break the spines on my books.
“You okay?” he asks, and I push my palms into my eye sockets until stars explode with every color of the rainbow.
I’ve always been the girl who got lost in thoughts and daydreams, but it’s gotten worse over the years. It’s a byproduct of hiding away from people, and now it’s become an excuse not to socialize unless I’m forced to.
People always have something to say about me. I’m flighty. I’m rude. I’m too distractable. I’m unfriendly.
And the thing is, it’s all true.
Shaking my head, I try to remember what he was saying. What was it? Oh, right. He’s here to save me.
Sigh. That’s all I’ve ever wanted and knew I could never have.
Rubbing my temples, I angle my face toward the floor.
“I’m sure you’re very good at what you do. But this is my life. One I’ve fought hard to build.”I can’t handle pushing you away again.
When he remains silent, I open one eye and squint at him. “Why are you staring at me like that?”
He stands shirtless, and with my panic slowly receding, I study him and finally register the tattoos I’ve been trying to avoid—nautical tattoos—specifically, a sailboat across his heart. My brain immediately shuts down. Dante Thompson with tattoos is worse than the strongest drug. It’s addicting, and I cannot take a hit of him.
“Like what?” he asks, and it sounds like he’s laughing at me, so I drag my gaze back to his, and sure enough, he’s showcasing that dimple that makes my breath catch. His blue eyes sparkle like the sun hitting the ocean at dawn, and his hair has dried in effortlessly windblown perfection that he probably did nothing to encourage. It’s light brown, and my fingertips remember exactly how soft the strands are. Every memory leads to another, my mind traveling a dangerous path.
My fingers twitch like they’re still grasping for him in the middle of the night. It’s not fair that he’s so pretty, and I hate how he can make me feel seen when I’m obviously trying to hide in plain sight.
Placing a hand on my hip, I pretend to relax into the position but angrily trace my finger in the air, pointing to his ink. “You hate tattoos.”
“I hated them for you,” he says with a slow shake of his head. “Your skin is a work of art. It would be a shame to have it defaced.” He’s laughing at me again.
My shoulders tense, and I consciously make them relax by stretching my neck from side to side and swinging my arms.When did I turn into a prized fighter?
“Why are you doing this?” My tone could freeze lava. “Why now? Wasn’t leaving once painful enough?”
Eesh. Super-bitch called, she wants her voice back. That was unfair. I didn’t give him a choice.
“The last thing I ever wanted to do was hurt you. I’m sorry that I did. I was young and stupid. I didn’t know how to handle the grief you were carrying.” He leans down into my space. “But neither did you.”
And he left.
Because I told him to.
