“I don’t think so,” I say. “Not outright.”
“But?” she says again, gently relentless.
“But he avoids things,” I say, the words tumbling faster now. “Changes the subject. Gets protective in this… intense way. Like he’s compensating for something.”
Clara sets her glass down. “Rose. I’m going to ask you something, and I need you not to get defensive, okay?”
My stomach tightens. “Okay.”
“Do you trust him,” she asks, “or do you trust the version of him you’ve built in your head?”
The question lands hard.
I stare at my wine, watching the surface ripple as my hand shakes slightly. “That’s not fair.”
“I know,” Clara says softly. “But I’m not asking to hurt you. I’m asking because I love you.”
I swallow. Images flicker through my mind of Callum searching for me in the crowd, his hand warm and steady at my back, the way he looks at me as if I’m the only solid thing in the room.
“I trust him,” I say. “I do. He’s never made me feel unsafe. Never made me doubt that he wants me.”
“That’s not what I asked,” Clara says.
I close my eyes.
The shadow of doubt, the one I’ve been pretending isn’t there, stretches a little longer.
“I trust who he is with me,” I say finally. “I don’t know if I know all of him.”
Clara’s expression softens. “That’s not the same thing as him being bad, Rose.”
“I know,” I whisper. “But what if it’s something big?”
Silence stretches between us, thick and uncomfortable.
“What did Talia mean about guilt?” Clara asks.
I shake my head. “I don’t know. That’s the problem.”
My thoughts drift, unwanted but insistent, to the accident and the way he randomly showed up at the hospital the day after. He told me he read in the news that I’d been at the game, and he thought it would be a nice thing to do. The way his hands clenched as though he was physically holding something back the first time I asked about him showing up. I’d chalked it up to protectiveness. To anger on my behalf.
Now, I’m not so sure.
“Do you think,” Clara says carefully, “that if thereissomething, he’s not telling you because he’s scared of losing you?”
That hits too close to the bone.
“Yes,” I say immediately. Too fast.
Clara nods. “Then the question becomes how long are you okay not knowing?”
My throat tightens.
Because that’s the actual question, isn’t it?
How long before the unspoken becomes louder than everything else. How long before every silence feels loaded. Every deflection feels deliberate.
“I don’t want to push him,” I say. “He’s already dealing with so much. The press. Talia. The season?—”
