"And you've been lying to me about it for months. Even this past week, when we were—" He gestured vaguely at the space between us. "When I thought we were being honest with each other."
"I wanted to tell you?—"
"When?" The word came out harsh. "When were you planning to tell me, Sabrina? Before or after I made a complete fool of myself by telling you how much I love you?”
A sliver of hope glimmered through the darkness. I reached for it. “You love me?”
“I loved what I thought we had.” He funneled a hand through his hair. “Fuck. I’m such an idiot.”
“Don't say that." Tears burned my eyes. "What we have is real. This—us—it's not about the list."
"Isn't it?" He laughed, but there was no humor in it. "You wrote that I was a heartbreaker who couldn't commit, couldn't stick around. And then you what? You decided to test the theory? See if you could get me to prove you right?"
"No! That's not—” I stepped toward him, but he backed away. "Trace, please listen to me. I wrote that list because I was hurt and angry and I thought you didn't want me. I thought you'd never see me as anything more than your safe, reliable friend.”
"So you decided to humiliate me publicly instead of just talking to me?"
"I didn't mean for it to be published. Nellie found a copy at the café and thought—" I stopped. It didn't matter what Nellie thought. The damage was done. I was the one at fault.
"How long have you known?" he asked.
"Known what?"
"That it was published. That the whole town was talking about it. How long did you watch me deal with the fallout while knowing you were the one responsible?"
I closed my eyes. "From the beginning."
"Damn." He blew out a frustrated breath. "Do you have any idea what that was like for me? Having people look at me like I was some kind of lowlife?”
"I'm sorry," I whispered. "I'm so sorry, Trace. I wanted to tell you, but I was scared?—"
"Scared of what? That I'd be angry? That I'd hate you?" He shook his head. "You know what the worst part is? I wouldn't have cared about the list. I would have been hurt, yeah, but I would have understood. What I can't understand is why you let me believe for months that some anonymous person had it out for me."
"Because I was a coward," I said, the words barely audible. "Because I was terrified of losing you again.”
"Again?" His voice went flat. "When did you lose me the first time, Sabrina?"
I looked at him and saw the moment he understood. The night three years ago when he almost kissed me and didn't. The weeks of awkwardness that followed. The slow drift apart that led to him dating someone else, to me writing his name on a list born from heartbreak and frustration.
"That's what this is about," he said. "That night. You're still mad about that night."
"I'm not mad?—"
"You are. You were then, and you're still punishing me for it now." He hung his head like all the fight had drained out of him. “Damn, Sabrina. If you wanted me to kiss you, why didn't you just say so?"
"Because I was dumb and scared and I thought if you wanted me, you would have done something about it.” The words clawed their way out of my chest, leaving a gaping hole where my heart should have been. "I spent years waiting for you to see me, really see me, and when you finally had the chance, you pulled away. So yeah, I was hurt. And yeah, I said some things I shouldn't have."
"Things like calling me a heartbreaker who couldn't commit."
"Things like that."
We stared at each other across my living room, years of hurt and misunderstanding stretched between us like a canyon too deep and wide to cross.
Then his shoulders squared and he shifted his focus to a spot on the floor. "I need some time," he said.
My voice cracked. "How much time?"
"I don't know." He moved toward the door, then stopped. "For what it's worth, you were wrong about that night. I wanted to kiss you. I wanted to do a hell of a lot more than kiss you. But I was scared I'd screw it up, scared I'd hurt you. Turns out I hurt you anyway."
