I don’t give her an opportunity to say anything before I get to the point. “So, I’m sorry that the two people who very clearly loved you more than anything, who raised two brilliant, motivated women, aren’t here. I’m sorry that mine are. Lifeis cruel. It doesn’t make sense, and I hate when people say everything happens for a reason. Because sometimes there is no reason. There is no excuse. We can’t always fit every little thing that happens to us into a box. Reality is an ugly thing. But you know what I do believe?”
She wets her lips. “What?”
“I firmly believe that only the strongest people are handed the worst cards. Because we’re resilient enough to survive. There are days I have to remind myself that I didn’t become like my mother and father. I chose a different path, which is for the best. Things could have been very different for me if I hadn’t.”
A tiny breath escapes her lips as she studies my face like she’s seeing me for the very first time. There’s a lot to my story she doesn’t know, and maybe I’ll tell her. One day.
But not today.
Today isn’t about me.
So, she can keep that secret and add it to the others just because I want her to.
“What do you need?” I ask her.
Winter stares and stares and stares.
Then, with a face still damp and eyes still bloodshot, she sits up and turns her body toward me. “This isn’t me begging for it,” she whispers, voice still raspy from the tears that were flooding her face only moments ago.
I’m about to ask what she means when one of her legs swings over me until she’s straddling my lap. My hands instinctively go to her hips, kneading them as she lets out a shaky breath.
“This isn’t me begging for it,” she repeats, her hands coming to my shoulders and curling her fingers around the tops of my collarbones.
I swallow, fully understanding what she’s referring to.The next time we kiss, it’s going to be because you’re begging me for it.
When she rolls her hips over me, I should tell her to stop. I should tell her now isn’t the time or place. That she’s hurt. That she’s sad. That she’llregretthis.
But then she pins me with those pleading eyes and whispers, “Please.”
Please don’t stop this.
Please don’t turn me down.
She moves over me and squeezes her fingers into my flesh, and all I can think is…
Son of a bitch.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Winter
Deep down, Iknow this is a bad idea. But I see the edge of the cliff that will take me far from the pain, anger, and grief rising higher and higher within me, and I leap toward it headfirst.
This isn’t me begging for it.
I don’t kiss Thomas, because then he’ll win.
This isn’t about him or the game we’re playing. The endless back-and-forth. The banter. The push and pull that builds every time we see one another. No. This is about me and the distraction that will make me feel anything other than the way I do right now.
Heartbroken.
This is for relief. I would rather be full of regret than sink into the endless pit of despair that has been building for over twelve years.
Thomas asks, “What do you want, Winter?”
That’s a loaded question. What I want is something simple. Easy. I want to feel free from the chains that have wrapped around me since the day I put white roses on my parents’ coffins. I want to have an out-of-body experience where only pleasure encompasses me instead of the emptiness that I pretend isn’t eating away at my soul.
I don’t justwantit at this point.
