“What are you doing?” he asks.
“What does it look like I’m doing? I’m packing.”
“For where?”
“London.”
He frowns.
“Why? Why are you going to London?”
“Because I’ve bought a ticket. And also…there’s an art exhibition. The one I’ve always wanted to see.”
There’s a beat of silence. I can feel him processing it.
“And you were just going to leave?” he asks quietly.
“Without telling me?”
I shrug.
“Why would I? It’s not we’re talking or whatever…”
That one hits.
I see it in his eyes – the flicker of guilt, of regret, of something raw he usually keeps buried under arrogance and cruelty.
He exhales and runs a hand through his hair.
“Pri… Jamie… I’m sorry.”
I freeze.
He steps closer.
“I’ve been an asshole. I know I have. I always am when I don’t know how to say what I actually feel. And I know how much it hurts you to hear all those stupid things I have to say, to keep that part of me a secret. To keepusa secret.”
I turn fully toward him now.
“I hurt you,” he continues.
“And I hate that. I hate that I keep doing it. To myself. But mostly to you.”
My heart is pounding so hard I’m scared he can hear it.
“And I—” his voice drops.
“I love you, Jamie. I have been for some time.”
I blink.
“You just said the “L” word,” I say faintly.
“Yes,” he says without hesitation.
“I did.”
I swallow.
