He stepped closer, jaw tight. “You think distance is the problem?”
I fired back instead of answering, my volume rising, “I’ve tried this—monogamy. I experimented with it, and let me tell you—it was shit.”
He let out a laugh, flat and bitter. “Experimented? What, till morning do you part?”
I ground my teeth, frustration twisting inside me. Couldn’t he see all these perfectly valid reasons—the mess, the distance, the lie of forever?
His tone softened, but his words didn’t. “You still don’t see it, do you?”
“See what?” I shot back.
“That the ugly duckling you say you used to be—she never left you. Not really.”
I froze. His words landed like a spotlight on the parts of me I worked hardest to keep in shadow or leave behind.
“No matter how many men look at you now, no matter how casual you make it seem ... deep down, you’re still waiting for someone to decide you’re worth choosing. And you’re still afraid that you’re not enough.” He paused, jaw flexing. “And not all men are like your father, Ruby.”
He didn’t say any of it to hurt me. That made it worse. He just saw right through me.
Through apartof me.
I swallowed hard, throat tight, voice controlled. “You’re right,” I forced out, hating how true it was. “And that’s exactly why I can’t do what you want. Because there’s only one way I know how to be.”And it’s always either not enough or too much,and somehow, always the wrong combination,I burned to add, but didn’t.
“I know,” he said, voice even, eyes locked on me, unflinching. “And I want that. You.”
My defenses crashed to the floor, clattering so loudly I was surprised he didn’t hear it. Every word he said was a direct hit. Each word jolted my heart to beat for him—but I couldn’t forget that just as fast, he could pull the plug and stop it from beating altogether.
I wanted to throw myself into his arms, I wanted to give it all, admit it all. In that moment, I desperately longed to be someone else, someone like Evangeline, who could love without the weight of an invisible countdown ticking away.
But I was me. Lost in a maze of my own making, with no clear way out. Any woman in her right mind would be stumbling over herself, running to him, and thanking whatever luck or deity for sending her this man. Any sane woman would be hearing a choir of hallelujahs at that kind of declaration. Any normal woman would be crying tears of joy right now.
But I was me. I heard the choir, felt joy trying to claw its way into my heart, knew it was the perfect declaration. But perfect things don’t last. So I stayed silent, meeting his gazewith all the defiance I had left, desperate not to show how much I was breaking inside.
He didn’t look away. Didn’t soften or falter. Just stood there, letting me unravel in silence.
He held my gaze for a long moment. Then zipped his bag, hoisted it onto his shoulder, and walked to the door.
I almost broke. Almost told him to stay, to forget everything I’d said. But almost wasn’t enough.
“You think you want me,” I called after him from the bedroom door. “But give it time—I’m not what you think I am. I’m not one for forevers.”
One last look—firm, unshaken—then he stepped out.
The door closed.
I didn’t chase him. I couldn’t bring myself to. My heart screamed for my legs to move, but my mind shackled them in place.
I stood breathless in the silence he left behind.
Defeated by my own victory.
Much like the storm damage outside, the hollow ache he left behind wasn’t something a coat of paint could cover up. I wouldn’t be able to easily fix it, or myself. It was structural.
I wasn’t a crier. I couldn’t remember the last time I cried. The inn closing down or death were the only things on my to-cry list.
And, apparently, Sebastian Sawyer.
Because here I was—curled on his bed, clinging to things that still held his scent and his touch, crying my heart out.
