Page 11

I stare at the closed door a beat longer, as if I can find answers hidden in the patterns of the grainy oak. I can practically picture her standing behind me, arms crossed, her eyes sweet and warm like the finest of honeys. The ever-present crease in her brow I used to smooth with my fingers.

“Sucks for you,” I say, realizing a minute too late that I sound like a grade-schooler.

“Will you please turn around and look at me, at least?”

I clench my jaw, the muscle popping in my cheek before I inhale through my nose and close my eyes.

I hate the position my so-called friends have put me in.

Standing here, in confined quarters with her is the last place on earth I want to be, a fact they’re quite aware of?or at least they should be?after I opened up to them.

Slowly, I blink my eyes open and turn because I’m not a coward, and I have no choice but to face her, unless I want to appear every bit as broken as I feel. I won’t give her the satisfaction.

My vision focuses, and I find her standing only feet away.

For a heartbeat, the world stutters. The sight of her splinters inside my chest, jagged and sharp, like glass cracking under pressure.

Memories rise like smoke: her laughter echoing in my car after Friday night football, the warmth of her hand in mine, the way she used to whisper my name like a promise.

Golden curls spill over her shoulders as one slender arm reaches toward me, but I take a step back, only to find I have nowhere to go when my back presses into the door.

It’s firm and solid beneath me, the complete opposite of how I feel when she meets my eyes and her lips part, pink and full and perfect.

Once upon a time, I knew exactly how they tasted, how soft they felt pressed against my own.

I wish I could say that my gaze doesn’t stray and take in the rest of her, but it does.

I’m like a sponge soaking up every last drop of water, drunk on the sight of her and ready to burst. She’s wearing designer jeans that hug curves I know by heart, along with a black sweater I’m guessing is cashmere.

A golden pendant glints at the base of her throat, catching the light, and my breath snags in my chest because I recognize the intertwined hearts as the present I gave her for her eighteenth birthday, just months before she broke my heart.

Her hand reaches up to her neck as if on autopilot, or maybe it’s because she catches me staring. Either way, when she pinches the gold hearts with her French-tipped fingers, I glance away from her, annoyed with myself for gawking.

“I never take it off, you know,” she says, as if she thinks I still care.

I don’t.

A pang echoes beneath my ribs, and I inhale as she takes a step closer, breathing in the familiar scent of sugared almonds. “Smart, going to my friends for help. Tell me,” I say, meeting her eyes, my jaw tight, “what sob story did you sell for them to feel sorry enough to help you?”

Hurt swims in the honey depths of her eyes before she clears her throat, and it disappears. “They came to me, actually.”

My brows rise at the audacity of her to come here and lie.

“They said you were playing poorly all week. They’re worried about the game on Sunday.”

I flinch, hating the way my cheeks heat at the admission.

It’s hard enough standing in front of the girl who so callously threw my heart away like she was taking out the trash.

But having her get an inside perspective on how I’m failing at the one and only thing I’ve ever been good at really fucking hurts.

Anger rises inside of me like a fine mist, until it swells and grows, pushing on the walls of my chest. I’m a human barometer, ready to burst. “I’ll be fine,” I say, wishing I believed it. “It’s just nerves.”

“I never doubted you.”

I scoff and glance away as I clench my jaw. I don’t know what pisses me off more: the fact that she has the nerve to transfer to my school, talk to my friends, and demand my time, or her casual display of faith in me.

“Is that why you dumped my ass the way you did?” I grind out. “Because you knew I’d be okay?”

She winces like my words hurt. “No, I . . .” She trails off, her expression stricken. “Damon, there are?”

“Why are you here?” I snap, cutting her off.

I cross my arms over my chest, narrowing my eyes at her in the silence as if saying I’ll wait.

“I told you. I want to talk. There are so many things I need to say.”

“No.” I shake my head, pointing to the ground. “Not in this room. Here. At this school. Was Harvard not posh enough for you? Did the students there not kiss your ass enough? Please, enlighten me.”

“I get that you’re angry,” she says, her tone tense. “And you have every right to be. I don’t blame you for not wanting to talk to me. After how I left you, maybe I don’t deserve your ear or your time, but?”

“Why. Are. You. Here?”

“Because I want you back!” she shouts.

Her hands clench into fists as I stare at her wide-eyed, shock ricocheting through me like a bullet. Of all the things I expected her to say, this was not one of them.

“I want a second chance,” she breathes. “You want the truth?” Her eyes search mine, and I wonder what she sees there.

Shock, pain, anger? “Well, the truth is I’ve been miserable without you.

The last two and a half years have been a complete wash, a waste of precious time.

Every single day without you, I’ve just been going through the motions, pretending to be happy when really, my every waking thought has been of you.

And I know I probably don’t stand even half a chance, but I’m willing to fight for you.

I’m willing to do the work, to earn your trust, to win you back. ”

Her words wrap around me, squeezing like a vise. Words I craved. Words I dreamed about hearing almost nightly for an entire year before I finally accepted the truth. She was never coming back, and she was happy with the life she built in Cambridge without me.

Had she come to me a month after we broke up?hell, two months, three, or even a year afterward?and pleaded her case, I would’ve forgiven her.

No questions asked. With zero hesitation.

Because I loved her that much. But it’s been two and a half years without even so much as a word or a phone call.

At any point, she could’ve reached out to me, and I would’ve listened.

But now, we’re way past the point of no return.

Even if forgiveness were an option, a second chance is impossible.

I can’t and won’t open my heart again. Not to her, not to anyone.

Suddenly, the air is a little too thin, the room far too small with both of us in it, and I can’t breathe. I can’t fucking think. My thoughts are too preoccupied with trying to make my lungs work.

“Say something,” she whispers in the silence.

My chest heaves, my heart hollow. The gaping hole she left in my life glares back at me like an old wound torn open—raw, exposed, and bleeding all over again.

I open my mouth, but the words catch, tangled in the mess of anger and longing lodged in my throat.

What am I supposed to say? That I still dream about her? That I hate how part of me wants to believe this could somehow be different?

No.

I won’t.

I can’t.

Instead, I swallow hard and force out the only thing I can manage. “I don’t know what you want me to say.”

“Tell me how you feel.”

A slow bitter laugh tumbles out of me. “Trust me. You don’t want to know how I feel.”

“I always want to know how you feel,” she whispers, and before I even realize what’s happening, she reaches up, softly cupping a hand over my jaw.

There’s a split-second where my mind goes blank, where all I do is fucking feel ?her fingertips grazing over my cheekbone, her palm warm against my skin, the soft brush of her thumb.

She feels like fucking sunshine and rainbows.

The first taste of ice cream on a hot day.

A crackling fire at dusk, thawing your frozen bones.

That first sip of water after you’ve been parched.

Like heaven and everything good in this world all wrapped into one.

And then I remember whose hand it is and how she broke me, and it all comes flooding back. Those desperate days after. The first weeks of hell without her and the months that followed.

Her touch is nothing but heartbreak.

I snap and grip the hand cupping my jaw, ripping it away before gripping her waist and spinning her around in one smooth motion until I have her pinned against the door, my breath hot on the side of her face as I look down at her.

Her eyes are like a bottle of bourbon, her cheeks pink, her lips parted, her breath a helpless rasp.

“You want to know how I feel?” I hiss.

She answers with a barely perceptible nod.

“I feel like seeing you again after all this time is like ripping the scab off an old wound. I feel like you’re here because you’re bored at school in Cambridge with all of Daddy’s rich, elitist friends.

That I’m the only real thing you’ve ever had in your life, the only person who hasn’t been bought and paid for.

It’s no coincidence that you show up at the height of my college football career, right when we’re in the thick of the National Championship.

I also think having a professional football player on your arm would pair nicely with the Astor name, and now that I’m closer than ever to it, you’ve realized what a mistake you made. ”

I rake my gaze over her, noting the heavy rise and fall of her chest, and shoving aside the brief spike of lust at the sight of her.

Then I sneer and continue my tirade. “Or maybe I’m wrong and that’s all bullshit.

Maybe this is some kind of mission for closure or to seek forgiveness so you can cleanse your soul or some shit.

I don’t know, and I don’t care, because I also feel like the day you left me was a gift.

It was the best thing that could have ever fucking happen to me because you showed me that love doesn’t last. That people don’t stay.

Most of all, you showed me your true colors.

That you’re every bit as vapid and superficial as your family name.

That you’ll trade in a good thing for something better, something new and shiny, but when that gets old, you’ll try to buy back what’s been lost.” My lip curls.

“But guess what? I’m not for sale. I never was. ”

Fire burns in my veins as I take a step back, soaking in her stunned expression. And fuck if even after all this time, a part of me doesn’t want to take her into my arms and soothe away the pain I know I just caused.

“I would never . . .” She shakes her head, her eyes filling with tears, and a vengeful, viscous part of me takes joy in watching her struggle to swallow her emotions when I’ve been struggling to digest mine for years. “None of that is true. I love you.”

I choke out a laugh. Unable to look at her any longer, I stare at the wall beside her head. “Don’t.”

“It’s true. You can be mad, you can say hurtful things, and yell and shout and tell me how despicable I am, but trust me, it’s nothing I haven’t told myself in the time we’ve been apart.

It’s nothing I haven’t thought about before, and it’s certainly nothing I don’t deserve.

But I can take it, and I will change your mind.

I’m different now, stronger. My reasons for leaving?”

“Your reasons for leaving were shit,” I snap, narrowing my eyes on her.

“There are things you don’t know. If you did, you would understand. Maybe it was wrong,” she says, talking faster now, as if I might cut her off before she can finish, “but I had reasons for why I did what I did. For the way I did it.”

I snort. “Please, enlighten me,” I say with a wave of the hand. “If they’re so compelling I’d understand, then please share because I’d love to hear it.”

Her mouth opens, and it’s seconds, maybe even a whole minute before she finally says, “I can’t tell you. At least, not yet.”

“Ah, right.” I rock back on my heels, nodding in understanding, because I never expected she’d have anything to share.

“No, Damon. You have to believe me,” she says, reaching out, once again pleading. “You have to just trust me.”

I bark out a laugh. “Trust you?” I say with a shake of the head. “Now that’s the funniest thing you’ve said yet.”

“Damon?”

“No more.” I hold a hand up, silencing her, ready to snap. “I gave you a chance to say your piece, and unless you want to elaborate on these elusive reasons, then we’re done here.”

I step back, then cross the room, putting as much space between us as possible. “Now text Chris and tell him that we’ve talked.” When she doesn’t budge, I bark, “Now!”

She only hesitates a moment, her gaze lingering on mine before she swallows and slides her phone from her pocket and begins to type.

By the time the bedroom door creaks open fifteen minutes later, I’ve gotten really fucking good at breathing the same air as Avery while pretending she doesn’t exist. That, and I’ve committed every inch of Chris’s room to memory.

I stand from my perch on the floor across from where Avery’s still frozen beside the door, when it swings open, and the asshole himself is standing in the doorway, looking happy as a pig in shit.

“So?” Chris claps his hands. “How did it go?” His gaze bounces between us in the silence, dropping to the curled fists at my side and his smile slowly fades.

Without a single word, I slide past Avery and push past Chris.

“Hey, man.” He lays a hand on my shoulder, but I shrug him off.

“Don’t fucking talk to me,” I snap. All I see is red as I stalk through the living room where Brandon, Jace, and West all hang their heads in shame, as they fucking should.

My hand finds the doorknob and I swing it open, ready to get the hell out of here at the same time Chris calls out, “So, I guess we’ll see you tomorrow before our flight?”

I flip him the bird before I slam the door shut behind me.