Page 115 of Too Far

Vindication thrums through me as I listen to him cry. He wasn’t completely unaffected by what he did, despite the cool, heartless mask he wears. He’s hurting. He’s hurting so badly he’s sobbing.

Yet he’s the root cause of our mutual pain.

God dammit, Decker Crusade.

I should have known better.

I should have pushed back harder, refused to come here in the first place.

This is why I can never go back to the mansion.

It’s not about dancing around one another and what almost was.

It’s not about avoiding each other the best we can.

It’s constantly battling against the invisible strings and palpable pull that link us together.

“Decker?” I call out, louder.

There’s a startled grunt, then silence ensues.

The shower turns off.

But he makes no move to emerge from behind the steamy glass enclosure.

He knows it’s me. He has to.

I take another step further into the room.

Anxiety thrums through my veins as I wait for him to speak. To acknowledge me.

A massive palm slaps against the fogged-up glass. It remains there. Inviting me. Resting. His open palm calls me forward like he knows I’d give anything to touch him for real. To feel the warmth of him again, even for a minute. Even though he was the one who brought about the bitter, cold darkness I’ve existed in for the last few weeks.

“Decker. Talk to me. Let me in.” I’m practically pressed up against the glass now, with no recollection of how I got all the way across the room.

His answer is nothing more than a choked-out, hollow sob.

Even so, he makes no moves to slide open the glass shower door. To reach out. To put us both out of our goddamn misery.

I swallow past the nauseating emotion lodged in my throat, not even bothering to fight the tears that fall freely down both cheeks.

“Decker, please,” I beg, placing my palm against the glass, lining it up with his massive hand.

The shower door shudders, startling me, as he presses his forehead into the panel between us.

“I’m sorry.” His words are muffled, and his face, all but his forehead and brow line, is hidden by the steam.

“Josephine. I’m so fucking sorry.”

A guttural sob shakes the glass, triggering an onslaught of my own tears. They well and crest over my lashes, falling fast and splattering against my chest like raindrops.

“Decker. Open the door.”

He shakes his head, and the glass shakes with him.

This stubborn, obstinate, bullheaded man.

“Decker Crusade,” I plead, grinding my own forehead into the smooth, warm glass.