And I’m the asshole who gave her hope.
“I can’t give you more than I already have. And not because of Joshua. Because ofme. Because this is all I’m capable of,” I manage to say through the ache in my throat. “I wish I could give you everything you deserve. But I just… I’m not that man. Not for you. Not for anyone. You’re better off without me.”
Silence hangs between us, thick and suffocating. I expect for her to keep pushing. She doesn’t. I see the second the fight goes out of her, the normal spark in her eyes disappearing in a heartbeat.
She turns from me and retreats toward the door. I have to physically fight the urge to reach out for her, my head at war with my heart.
Just as she touches her hand to the knob, she pauses, her eyes locking with mine one last time.
“I don’t think you give yourself enough credit, Declan. You’re a good man. And you deserve more than what you’ve allowed yourself to have. When will you stop depriving yourself of the happiness you deserve? The happiness your mother would have wanted you to know? When will you stop punishing yourself for something that wasn’t your fault?”
Her words hit me harder than I expected.
But I don’t answer. It can’t change anything.
Instead, I push out a sigh and turn away, retreating into the bedroom so I don’t have to watch her leave. So I won’t call out to her and make her promises I’ll only end up breaking in the long run.
Her footsteps echo through the townhouse, each one pulling at something raw and unhealed inside me. Then silence surrounds me. And it’s the loudest silence I’ve ever experienced.
“I’m not sure I know how,” I whisper to no one at all.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CLAIRE
The barn smellslike cinnamon and nutmeg, the kind of cozy warmth that wraps around me like a sweater. Twinkle lights snake along the rafters, casting a golden glow over the long rows of baking stations for the first annual Holley Ridge Christmas Bake-Off.
It’s chaos wrapped in holiday cheer — metal bowls clanging, mixers whirring, contestants cursing under their breath when their icing comes out too runny.
But I welcome the chaos.
Watching contestants build and decorate elaborate gingerbread houses keeps me busy. Keeps me distracted.
Keeps me from thinking about Declan.
At least it should.
But I still find myself drowning in the memory of him. His hands. His voice. The way he held me like he hated to let me go.
Except hedidlet me go.
When I got home from work the fateful day I decided to hand him my heart, his car wasn’t in the driveway. I didn’t think anything of it at first. Figured he was probably spending time with Joshua.
But the next morning, the driveway was still empty. And again the next night. I immediately knew something was wrong. Knew he’d left.
Joshua later confirmed my suspicion, mentioning Declan needed to get back to D.C. for a work emergency.
But I knew better.
The work excuse was precisely that. An excuse. He left because of me. Because I wanted more.
No matter how many times I tell myself it’s his loss, that I’m better off without someone who can’t choose me, I still feel hollow inside. Like I’m not worth sticking around for.
“Who are you rooting for?”
I startle at the voice and turn as Joshua sidles up next to me, his hands shoved into his jacket pockets. He smells faintly of raw earth and pine, a sharp note against the syrupy sweetness of the barn.
“What’s that?”
