“That’s not what I meant?—”
“It’s fine.” She lifts her chin. “I get it.” Her voice goes flat. “Thanks for the coffee.”
Then she spins around and hurries from the room, leaving me standing by the counter, alone.
That’s not what I meant,I want to argue.
But if the positions were reversed, wouldn’t I assume the same thing?
Turning back to the window, I lay my hands flat on the counter and let out a heavy sigh.
This is harder than I thought it would be.
I thought I could compartmentalize my emotions while she’s here—setting aside the bitterness and disappointment and hurt while I focus on keeping her safe.
I thought I could set aside the memories.
I thought enough years had gone by for it to not bother me.
How stupid was I?
All of it bothers me. Not just Sofia in danger. But seeing her injured. Scared. Anxious. Remembering the way she likes hercoffee after eighteen damn years. Wanting to make breakfast for her so I know she eats something. Feeling sick at the idea of leaving her alone in my condo.
And knowing I’m the one who put that hurt look in her eyes?
Thatbothers me most of all.
Chapter Seven
SOFIA
Feeling sorry for myself doesn’t accomplish anything.
I learned that lesson years ago, during the days and weeks after my life fell apart.
At first, I couldn’t bear the thought of even leaving my bedroom.
Or rather, my aunt’s guest bedroom in her apartment in Albany, where I’d been forced to retreat. Surrounded by barren walls without all my photos and mementos tacked to them, sleeping on a bed that didn’t feel like my own, looking out the window at a view so different from what I knew, I couldn’t imagine feeling more alone.
Aunt Di did what she could. She stocked the fridge full of my favorite foods. She invited me to watch TV with her every night. She even offered to let me drive her to work so I could use her car to get around during the day.
But there was no place I wanted to go. Not in Albany. Not in the suburbs around it. Not back to New York City, where I was no longer welcome.
Everything was too raw. Too bright. Too loud. Even venturing to the kitchen was overwhelming. The sun streaming through the kitchen window made my eyes hurt after spending days in the bedroom with the lights turned off. The car honking its horn outside made me sad because it reminded me of home. And the first time I dared collect my aunt’s mail from the mailroom, after seeing a young couple holding hands, obviously in love, I barely made it back to her apartment before bursting into tears.
It was easier to hide. To stay in bed for ten, twelve hours at a stretch, the covers drawn up over my head as if somehowthatwould protect me.
But it was too late. The damage had been done. Everything I’d worked for—graduation, the scholarships I was supposed to receive at our senior awards ceremony, college, the man I’d thought I’d spend my life with—gone.
I couldn’t see a way out of the dark hole I was in. And for a time, I didn’t much care about escaping. After all, the dark hole matched the aching emptiness in my heart.
But as the lonely days crept by, I gradually realized I didn’t want to live that way anymore.
I told myself I was terribly bruised, but not broken.
And the night of graduation, while I sat alone in my bedroom instead of crossing the stage like I’d planned, I made a vow to myself.
I can get through this.
