“You see her?”
What. The. Fuck.
He holds out his hands to placate me, but anger rushes through me. Hot and acidic.
“Calm down, Luce.”
“You sought her out, but not me.”
Why am I angry? I didn’t search him out, either.
“Fuck’s sake.” He pinches his nose. “Of course, I fucking did. You’re always so quick to attack!” he snaps and gulps down the whiskey in one swallow. “Why do you always make me the villain? Is it easier for you?”
“Fuck off,” I say, scrambling off the bed as gracefully as a jellyfish. “You left me,” I spit.
He drags both hands through his hair, gripping at the roots before dropping them like the weight of holding them is too much to bear.
“You need to stop. You need to stop blaming me. Stop repeating the same shit because you’re too fucking scared to talk to me like an adult.”
His voice cracks slightly before he pulls it back, anger sharpening every word.
“We need to have this fucking conversation, regardless of how uncomfortable and shitty it makes us feel.”
He doesn’t move.
Doesn’t storm out or raise his voice. He sits there, every muscle tightly coiled like a spring, ready to explode. Jaw clenched like he’s holding himself together with nothing but willpower.
And his eyes burn into mine—begging me to meet him halfway, but knows I won’t
And me? I do what I do best.
Attack, block, and run.
I stare at Owen, at the man he’s become, and catch my reflection in the mirror.
We are complete opposites. He has turned the pain of the past and made peace with it. Maybe that’s why he found Maria. But I didn’t. I may tell myself I buried Lucy. Sure, I did, but I didn’t put her to rest. I just literally buried her, pretended she didn’t exist, and threw myself into my new life.
I never came to terms with what happened, never dealt with it, never had closure.
Fuck.
Fuck.
Fuck.
I can’t do it.
I can’t have this conversation, because hating him is easier for me. I can’t face the demons of the past. I can’t, not with him sitting on that bed judging me.
“Lucy. Please.” His eyes search mine, watching the turmoil run over my face as I inwardly argue with myself.
I do need to hear what he has to say.
I do need to listen.
I do need to have this conversation regardless of how uncomfortable it makes me feel.
Because I do need to leave the past where it is—the past.
