Page 15 of Anatomy of Us

I jerk away, take two steps back, put space between us. My chest rises and falls too fast. My breathing goes wild and it has nothing to do with the drill.

“No. I can’t… I can’t do this with you again,” I say, hands up like I need the air to keep us apart.

Tessa looks wrecked. Her hair is messy where my fingers tangled in it. Her eyes—God, her eyes—are so full of want I could tear her clothes off with my teeth if I didn't remember what happened between us seven years ago.

“Zoe…”

“You broke my heart and threw it on the floor once.” My voice comes out rough. “You left me. You chose Munich. You chose your career. You chose everything but me. And it took me years to recover. I can’t, Tessa. It’s not happening again.”

“I know…”

“You know?” I bark a laugh that tastes like metal. “You know how much it hurts to realize you left convinced it was the right call? You know what a stupid, massive mistake it was to marry Nate just because he was there at the right time and I thought at least he wouldn't wreck me the way you did? And look how that ended.”

“Zoe, please… just listen, okay?”

“Has anything changed? What makes you think this time would be different?”

She goes quiet.

The silence stretches too long.

Too sharp.

I can almost see the fight in her head: she wants to lie, she wants to give me something soft to hold onto, she wants to promise things she isn’t sure she can deliver.

But Tessa doesn’t lie. It’s one of the only solid points in this whole mess. She tells painful truths instead of comfortable lies.

And right now, her silence is the most painful truth of all.

“Yeah,” I murmur, turning on my heel and walking away so she doesn’t see me cry.

Chapter 6

Tessa

“Has anything changed?”

Her question hits me square in the face, like a poorly cleared ball.

Zoe doesn't say it to hurt me. She says it the way you flick on the bathroom light at three a.m.—no drama, no buildup. Just truth. And she has every right to ask.

I can't lie to her.

I can't promise her anything either.

Not the brave thing. Not the pretty thing. Not the line that would sound good in a cheap rom-com. Seven years apart should have given me a better answer than the painful silence that forms between us.

I sit on my bed with my knees bent at the edge of the mattress. Seattle stays dark, that blue-black winter shade that sinks into your bones. On the window, fat raindrops slide down like the glass is crying over how stupid I am.

I need to run. Or scream. Or fuck.

Or all three. Order doesn't matter.

I grab my shoes.

It's the easiest option.

Outside, the rain slaps my clothes to my skin, a cold second layer. Capitol Hill is almost empty: a hunched delivery guy staring at the sky and cursing the rain, a metal shutter grinding up with a squeal, a ripped trash bag nobody bothered to toss in the bin.