She laughs once, an empty sound. “You don’t know what I went through.”
Looking at her now, at the devastation seeping from her, I recognize this might be the last time we see each other. The last time we talk, the last opportunity I get to explain myself. If I don’t take this chance, I may never get another one.
Gently, I take her upper arm in my grasp. She winces, as if my touch causes her pain. Maybe it does, but I sure as hell know it’s not physical.
“You’re right. I don’t know. Would you tell me, if I asked?”
Her lower lip trembles. I try not to stare at it, but it’s nearly impossible. Like the top swell of her breasts, her lower lip is a part of her I’ve loved on.
“I…” She looks conflicted. “I don’t know.”
“What did you go through? After”—I pause, searching for a word, but there isn’t one—“everything.”
I see in her eyes that she is afraid to tell me. After all this time, she’s still protecting me from her feelings. “Avery, please. I don’t have a right to know. I understand that. Still…” I force my hand to stay where it is, to not cup her cheek and stroke her soft skin like I’m dying to do. “I want to know.”
“You don’t deserve it.” Her whisper is sharp, slicing into my heart.
My chin drops. “No, I don’t.”
She’s quiet, then says, “Gabriel?”
My eyes draw up to hers. She swallows and looks at the dining room table beside us. “Do you see those papers?”
I look to my left. A stack of bound paper lies open on the table.
“That’s a half-finished manuscript. The book of me and you.” Her head shakes quickly. “That’s not the title. There isn’t one yet.”
I look back to her. “That’s our story?”
“Half of it.”
“The other half?”
“I’m still writing it.”
I’m not sure what to say. In a time that feels like another life, I told her to use our story. I’d wanted to give her something, anything, to make the situation better.
Avery continues. “If you want to know what it was like for me, it’s all right there.”
“I can read it?”
She stares at me for a long moment, and I know she’s thinking through something. “Yes,” she says finally. She extracts herself from my hold, stepping over to the table. She closes the manuscript and offers it to me. I take it, tucking it to my chest like a football.
“Avery, I?—”
“You should leave.” Her gaze skitters to the back door. Both dogs stand beside it, asking to be let out.
I have a lot more to say, and no right to push her. “You’re alone out here?” I look around the place.
Her chin lifts defiantly. “Yes.”
“For how long?”
“Two weeks.”
I point next door. “I’m in the next cabin over, if you need anything.” I’m sure she’s planning to never need anything, and I don’t blame her.
She nods and folds her arms in front of herself, as if she’s erecting a barrier. “Thank you.”
