He pulled back just enough to look into my eyes, his gaze open in a way I’d never seen before. I saw the desire in it, the confusion and maybe even something too close to vulnerability flickering there. His breathing was still uneven as he swallowed hard. His jaw tightened like he was forcing himself to remember the reality of our situation.
Slowly, carefully, he pushed himself upright, running a hand through his hair before clearing his throat. “I, uh, I’ve got to go, but I’ll see you tomorrow. We’re taking the jet to New York. For the party. I’ll… you can ride to the airstrip with me.”
The words felt painfully formal after everything that had just happened, but he sat there for a half a second longer, his gaze darting back to mine like he was sneaking a peek at something he wasn’t sure he was allowed to have. Then he stood, discreetly zipping himself back up before giving me a nod and then turning to cross the room to the front door in just a few long strides.
It clicked shut behind him seconds later, the quiet that followed pressing in on me like a physical weight. I stayed on the couch, my lips still tingling, my pulse refusing to slow, and the terrifying certainty settling deep in my chest that whatever this was between us, it had grown far bigger than either of us had planned for.
I’m falling for him.
It was wrong. I knew it was wrong, splitting myself like this, emotionally, morally, and catastrophically between two people who held entirely different parts of me.
Yet Nate was here. He was real. Solid. Complicated. Infuriating and devastatingly present, and he was making all those carefully constructed walls inside me crumble like sandcastles under a rising tide.
And he wants me. At least, I think he does.
The uncertainty twisted sharply in my stomach, but I knew that wanting someone in the heat of the moment and wanting them in the cold clarity afterward were two very different things. Nate had pulled away first, remembering reality and immediately acting on it.
My gaze drifted to my purse sitting crookedly on the coffee table and a slow, creeping dread curled through me. I leaned forward and fished my phone out.
Okay, that’s great and all, but what about CB?
My secret. My meticulously compartmentalized other life. The version of me that existed in typed messages, late-night calls, and promises built on anonymity and distance. Five years of something that had felt safe precisely because it lived outside the chaos of my real world.
I stared at the black screen. My reflection was faintly visible across the glass, betraying my flushed cheeks and swollen lips while my hair fell messily around my face, evidence I couldn’t hide. I looked like someone who’d just crossed a line she’d sworn she’d never even approach.
“Damn it,” I muttered under my breath.
Setting the phone down on the cushion beside me, I drew in a breath and slowly released it. Honestly, I was terrified of what I had to say to him, so I just sat there for a few seconds instead, staring at nothing with my pulse thudding in my ears.
All the while, my mind helpfully replayed what it’d felt like to be with Nate like that. The man I would be marrying soon.
On a frustrated exhale, I finally grabbed the phone again, my fingers moving of their own accord as muscle memory guided me through familiar steps to open a new message window. The cursor blinked patiently. I started typing, the words coming out slower than they ever had before.
More careful. Less playful. Every sentence felt like it weighed twice as much as it should. I paused halfway through, doubt clawing its way up my spine and urging me to delete everything, but I couldn’t do that.
It was time.
When I was done, I reread what I’d written and my chest ached with the knowledge that this message wouldn’t fix anything. It was actually going to make things worse, but I hit send anyway.
Because out of the two men I loved, I was only committing the rest of my life to one.
CHAPTER 25
NATE
Ilay flat on my back, staring at the ceiling like it might rearrange itself into answers if I just kept looking. My bedroom was dark except for the ambient light and the dim glow of my phone resting against my chest.
Emma’s latest email sat open on the screen. I’d read it five times already. Maybe six. At this point, I could almost recite it from memory.
I’m sorry I didn’t show up at the station. I was going to cancel too. I don’t know why this feels so hard all of a sudden, but I think we need to talk. I’m back in NYC. Not sure how long I’ll be here. Is there a way to meet up soon?
Guilt tore at me, sharp and relentless. The kind that didn’t just sit in my stomach but had worked its way into my bones, making them feel brittle and fragile.
I scrubbed a hand over my face, dragging it down slowly before lifting the phone again and rereading her words. It kept feeling like there was something hidden between those lines. The tone was so completely different than what I’d known from her all these years that I didn’t know what to make of it.
Eventually, I decided to just text her.
Me: I’ll be in NYC this weekend. Does Sunday work?
