“What? Let him grovel.”
“But it’s my fault we got in a fight,” I whine.
“Let. Him. Grovel,” she says with finality. With the tone she uses? Impossible to argue.
And, while I wait, I let my bleeding heart spread its pain through my bloodstream, wishing things had gone differently.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
ALARA
I didn’t think it’d be possible for a fracture to split an already-broken heart, but it is.
When I walk into my tiny office the next morning, what’s left of my heart falls to pieces, the remnants scattered at the bottom of my stomach, almost making me collapse to the ground. Atop my desk there are two items I know so well I could draw them in my sleep: a to-go cup and a paper bag from the Latte Lounge.
I’m completely exhausted from the lack of sleep and my emotions have been in a whirlwind since yesterday’s argument, so when I walk over to the desk, it feels as though I’m dragging my feet.
A sigh of defeat escapes me as I sit down, my bag falling to my feet, my jacket still on. Emotion rises in my throat, and when I reach out to grab the cup I notice how badly I’m trembling. The scent of cinnamon fills the air.
The sight of Diego’s handwriting on the side makes a sob rise in my chest.
I’m sorry, he’s written. Next to it, he’s drawn a saddened emoji, the exact same way he did when he was trying toapologize for being a major dick when he first started working here. That feels like ages ago.
Tasting salt on my lips, I understand I’m crying, and when I dry the evidence with the back of my hand, I notice the silhouette that’s looming in the doorway. My skin heats like it’s been exposed to sparks, my body knowing exactly who can elicit such a reaction. I can’t find a sliver of strength in me to look away, so when I drag my gaze up his gorgeous physique to focus on his equally handsome face, my breath catches. His devastated eyes are on me, soft and vulnerable, veiled by a thick layer of sadness.
“Alara,” he rasps. My name is a whisper on his lips, quiet, and yet destroying everything in its path.
He takes a tentative step forward, and when I don’t stop him, his shoulders relax a little. He walks further into the room – all four steps to reach the desk – and once he’s by my side, he drops to his knees, his hands gently spinning my chair so that I’m facing him.
This close, and as he looks up at me, I can see the fatigue in his face. The heavy bags beneath his bloodshot eyes. The quiver in his chin as he tries to find the words to say. On either side of my chair, his knuckles whiten with the intensity of his grip, like he’s forcing himself to touch anything but me.
I want to leap into his arms, pepper his skin with kisses, and forget about how our poor communication has led to this destruction. But first, I have to apologize.
“Diego,” I start. My voice is like sandpaper. “I’m—”
“I’m sorry,” he interrupts firmly, unshed tears gathering at the corners of his eyes. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean a thing I said. I was just—”
A knock on the door jamb startles us both, but we don’t look away from each other. Diego’s eyes track a single tear rolling down my cheekbone, and I can sense how it affects him. As if thesight of my distress hurts him. As if he can’t bear seeing me like this.
“Hello, sorry to interrupt,” Thomas says sheepishly. From my peripheral vision, I can see him swaying in discomfort. “Diego, you’re needed in the snowboard section. A teen is asking for your advice. Also, change of plans for today’s schedule, you’re in the atelier to wax the boards that just came back from renting. Alara, you’re on front desk duty with Joe, because it looks like it’s going to be a busy day.”
Letting his head fall forward, Diego sighs heavily. Then, he looks at Thomas and nods before pushing himself to his feet. I don’t think it’s intentional, but his fingertips graze my thigh, the usual chills rising in the wake of his touch. His cologne trails behind him, eliciting another wave of nostalgia inside me. When he’s out of the room, he pivots and tucks his hands in the pockets of his jeans.
There’s a small tic in his jaw when it tightens, then his rough voice echoes. “I’m sorry,” he repeats.
“You already said that.” It’s an attempt at sending him a little jab of humor to let him know nothing’s changed between us – that I don’t wantanythingto be different.
The corner of his mouth tilts upward. He dips his chin, swallowing thickly. “Well, when you’re ready to talk, let me know.”
I nod and watch him turn away from me, the hollow in my chest expanding further and further. “Diego?” When he halts, he doesn’t look at me, but I see the strain in his shoulders. “I’m sorry too.”
“I know.”
And when his footsteps fade away, the floodgates open for the first time today, and I don’t think I can survive another minute without him.
“Pizza delivery!”
Mom storms inside my cabin, Dad hot on her heels with a square box in hands. Jordan follows suit, kicks his shoes off, then looks up at where I’m perched in the middle of the staircase with a blanket wrapped around me.
