The silence stretches, thick as molasses in the cooling air. And then—like gravity wins—he steps closer.
His hand brushes mine. Calluses scrape my skin, and my breath stutters.
For ten years, I’ve told myself I don’t want this, don’t need this. But when his mouth finds mine, it’s like a dam breaking.
“I told myself I’d keep my distance.” His lips are soft against mine. “But then I see you, and suddenly the only thing I can measure is how fast I want to close the space between us.”
Unlike last time, the kiss isn’t gentle. It’s raw. Hungry. Desperate. It’s a kiss that says we lost a decade, and we never stopped wanting each other. My fingers twist into his shirt, pulling him closer, like it’s muscle memory.
When we finally tear apart, I press my foreheadto his heart, lungs heaving. “I can’t,” I whisper. “I won’t be the other woman.”
“You’re not.” His arm tightens at my waist.
“You and Noelle,” I breathe.
“We broke up.”
I look up and search his face. “Why?”
His jaw ticks. “Because I can’t be with another woman.” The words come out hard, bitten off, with venom-laced at the edges. He exhales long and slow, cups my cheek with a hand roughened by rope and rein. “I’m sorry. I just—dammit, Sarah, I need to let the past rest.”
My throat burns. I believe him. I really do. But for me, the past is carved into me like a brand, and no kiss—not even his—can burn it away.
I step away from him. “You hate me, remember?”
His eyes go moist, soft, broken. “I try to remind myself, Dove, but….” He trails off like he doesn’t have enough words.
“Stop calling me Dove.”
I want to cry. I want to scream. I want to hate him.
“But that’s who you are to me.” The words seem as if they’re torn out of him. “Loving you wasn’t something I did; it was who I was. You were woven into every heartbeat, every breath, every quiet thought.”
“Love?” I shake my head, feeling a weary despair that I know is going to take me under. “I don’t think you know what it means, Cade. You didn’t love me. If you did, you wouldn’t have….”
I rub my hand over my face to clear it of his smell.
“Wouldn’t have what, Sarah?” he asks, his voice bitter. “I love my brother, too.”
I scoff at that. “You’re confusing loyalty with love. You’re confusing lust with love. Neither is the same thing.”
“What did you want me to do, Sarah?” He throws his hands up in the air. “He’s my brother.”
“And he’s a rapist.” The words feel like acid on my tongue.
He flinches.
“A. Rapist,” I repeat slowly, enunciating the word. “And you know what that makes you?” I point a finger at him. “It makes you one, too. Because what he did was a violation. What you did…what my father did… was betrayal. It was worse than the rape.”
Shock registers on his face. “Sarah?—”
“Stay away from me,” I cry out hoarsely. “You’re not good for me. And don’t touch me again. You have no right to do that. Not when you look at me with suspicion and doubt.”
That night, I called Marnie Evans while I sat on my porch, huddled in a jacket, the endless sky in front of me.
She answers on the second ring. “Sarah.”
“Tell me,” I whisper. “Tell me everything you can.”
