“Yes.”
“I didn’t come here to ruin your life,” I say.
“And yet,” she murmurs.
I huff out a breath. “I came because I can’t stand the thought of you doing this without me.”
She finally looks at me, and her eyes shine with something raw and dangerous. “You already let me.”
“That’s not fair.”
She lets out a humourless laugh. “You don’t get to decide what’s fair anymore, Kade.”
The knife twists.
“I’m trying,” I say, my voice low. “I’m here. I drove hours. I’m sitting across from you while your . . . boyfriend just walked out.”
“Don’t,” she warns.
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t say it like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you’re entitled to comment on my life, on who I choose to keep around.”
I sit there, staring at her, realising with a slow, sick dread that I’ve been walking into every conversation expecting her to still belong to me in some way. Like loving her automatically gave me a claim.
But it doesn’t.
“I don’t think you understand,” I say carefully. “I’m not here to take anything from you.”
“Then why does it feel like you’re circling?” she fires back. “Why does it feel like you’re waiting for me to slip?”
“I’m not.”
“You are,” she insists. “You did it before. You stayed close, watched me unravel, and never once asked the right questions.”
My throat tightens. “I was scared,” I admit. “And I don’t do scared well.”
“No,” she says softly, “you do control.”
Her words hurt because they’re true. Silence stretches between us again. The lemon meringue sits untouched, slowly melting, the perfect peak collapsing in on itself.
She exhales, pressing a hand to her stomach in an absent, protective gesture that nearly brings me to my knees.
“It moves more at night,” she says suddenly. “Or maybe that’s just when I notice it more.”
I swallow, glad for the change of subject. “Does it hurt?”
“Sometimes. Mostly it’s just . . . strange. I’m sharing my body with a tiny person.” She smiles to herself as she stares down at her bump.
I nod. “I wish I could feel.”
Her lips press together, emotion flickering across her face before she shutters it away. She finally lifts her fork, taking a small bite, and I watch like it’s the most important thing in the world.
“I’m not promising you anything,” she says, not looking at me. “Not forgiveness. Not reconciliation. Not even friendship.”
