Still, she almost said to Griffin that she believed him, when she couldn’t be sure that she did.
When she couldn’t be sure he believed himself yet.
And she thought—shedecided—that she would never make that mistake again.
So she didn’t say anything. She stood there and felt her eyes well up with tears she knew would fall.
His throat worked as he stepped closer. He took her hand, but in a particular way—the same way he had by the Seine. A slow, careful braiding, step by careful step until they were folded into each other.
She did the same thing she had that night.
Waited until he got close enough, then rested her forehead against his chest.
This time, what she felt there was only his burning, breaking heart.
This time, she thought she could soak it in her tears.
He spoke to her in a low voice, low like it was when they were in bed, but stripped of eroticism. A private voice.
“I don’t ever want to see you burned to the ground because of me. Out in the world on your own, trying to build yourself back up with your plans and your nice smiles and your never staying mad at anyone.”
They were dangerously close tohim deciding for herterritoryagain, him deciding what she did and didn’t deserve. But only close, not quite there, at least not for her, because she was thinking about that phrase:Out in the world on your own. She was turning it over in her mind, thinking of all the ways after her divorce that she’d made herselfmorealone. Those choices, she knew, were hers alone to own, not Jamie’s: taking the new job, moving all the time, not staying close to Cara, not trying anything new, not doing anything but working, all because it felt to her like…
It felt to her like she’d failed.
Like her struggles with staying close to the MacKenzies—all the missed family dinners, the coffee check-ins, whatever—were proof that she didn’t deserve a family.
That she didn’t deserve to be close to anyone at all.
I guess I’m not actually good, either. I’m not even all that reliable.
Her tears were coming in earnest now, soaking into Griffin’s shirt. She wished she’d stolen one of them, because she had the feeling she wouldn’t see one again for a while.
She had the fear that she wouldn’t see one again for forever.
“Layla,” he said, that particular way he had of shaping the sound of her name. She squeezed her eyes shut,tight tight tightto get a couple more of the tears out, and then looked up, bracing herself.
Don’t say I won’t see one of these shirts again for forever, she thought.
“I want to know what promises I can make to you,” he said, and ironically, it was as grave and serious as hearing a vow itself being made. “And what ones I can’t. I have to know that, first.”
She nodded. She had his shirt clutched in her fists, a tiny, sad celebration.He didn’t say for forever, she said to the shirt.Maybe I’ll touch your nice seamless softness again.
He must’ve misread her silence, because his face hardenedagain, his brow furrowing. His right hand was still tangled with hers, so he lifted his left and put it against her cheek, tipping her face up, his eyes on hers intense.
“And in case it’s not clear,” he said, “if I didn’t make it clear, that first night I kissed you—”
Her eyes slid closed, remembering it.
There shouldn’t be anything amicable about losing you.
He stroked her cheekbone until she looked at him again.
“If I had you, the only force in this world that could get me to let you go is my own pain.Nothingelse.”
She knew what he meant, saying that. She knew he was reassuring her, even if it was premature. Even if it would turn out to be impossible.
He would never leave her the way Jamie had, he was saying.
