Page 77 of Divorced from Number Thirty-Eight
“Delicious,” I tell her after I’ve chewed and swallowed. “Almost like Nana’s?”
She flinches slightly before forcing a smile on her face. A smile I hate. Because it’s fake. Because it’s not Faye’s.
Because I don’t like that I’ve hurt her.
“We don’t have to talk about it,” I say, smoothing back her hair. “I didn’t mean to poke a sore spot.”
“It’s not a sore spot.”
“You flinched.”
A sigh. “You’re right,” she says. “I miss her and I wish she was here and I hate—” A jerky nod to the window, to the remains of her house on the other side of it a painful reminder. “I hate that I lost what I had left of her, of them.”
“I’m so sorry, Red.” I draw her close, smoothing a hand down her spine, yet even as I do that, my eyes are searching for any sign of Courtney coming back.
Because by the time we made it out of the shower, she was gone.
Nothing left behind aside from fingerprints on the glass and scuff marks on the front door from her trying to kick it in.
And how long before she’s back?
Before she’s doing worse than knocking on windows and trying to kick in doors?
Faye’s next words are as though she’s read those exact thoughts ping-ponging through my brain. “About this morning…”
I tense.
She leans back. “You were going to tell me what happened between us was a mistake, weren’t you?”
I force myself to continue looking at her.
And a second after meeting my gaze she nods, whispers, “Yeah, that’s what I thought.”
“Red—”
Pulling from my arms, she slices off a piece of bread and passes it to me, another for herself then bites off a hunk of hers. “I get it,” she says. “The urge to run, to stop this before…” She exhales. “Before I get too attached.” She shoves the rest of the slice in her mouth, chews, and swallows. “And maybe that would be smarter, safer, especially since we hardly know each other.” Her voice drops. “But every time I think about walking away…”
“What?” I rasp.
“I’ve written almost fifty books,” she murmurs after a long moment. “And in every single one of them, there has been this exact moment—the past wanting to tear my heroes apart, coaxing them into remaining exactly as they were because the possibility of a beautiful future, of changing and growing and being vulnerable with a person—no with the person—who can hurt them most deeply is absolutely terrifying.”
My pulse speeds, fingers tightening into fists.
“And even after fifty books, I don’t think I’ve captivated that terror properly,” she whispers. “Because living it”—her gaze comes to mine—“even thinking about the possibility of having it is…” A shake of her head. “I don’t know if I have a word for it that’s more intense than terror.” She takes a breath. “Because that’s what it is.”
A beat.
“Abject terror.”
Twenty-Six
Faye
I force myself to keep speaking even as he moves toward me.
“But this morning,” I say. “Even though we’ve had days, not months or years together, the thought of you walking away was scarier than me taking a chance on us.”
He freezes.
