He looks out at the ocean. ‘I’ve been better.’
I shift on my seat. ‘Where’s Brit?’
He shrugs. ‘Probably in LA, cutting holes into my clothes. Which is ironic,’ he adds sardonically, ‘seeing as I’d finally stopped wearing moth-eaten T-shirts.’
His words make me feel so many confusing things.
‘Have you broken up?’
‘Yep,’ he replies flatly.
‘Why?’
He hesitates for a moment before casting me a sidelong look. ‘Because of you.’
‘Me?’ My stomach somersaults. ‘How have I got anything to do with your relationship?’
‘I told her I was coming here and she was not at all happy about it. She said if I came, we’re done. So I guess we’re done.’
‘Finn, no,’ I say determinedly. ‘You can fix this.’
‘I can’t. It’s too late.’
‘It’s never too late. Not if you fight for her. You can go back, you can call her right now and convince her you don’t want to be here, that you regret coming.’
‘But that would be a lie,’ he says dully, returning his gaze to the sea.
I stare at him, my pulse racing.
He turns once more to look at me.
‘Do you love him?’ he asks.
It’s hard to witness the wary trepidation in his blue-green stare, but I force myself to maintain eye contact.
‘Yes.’
Time seems to stand still for a moment, and then he buries his face in his hands.
The memory of his shattered expression and his eyes filling with sudden tears is burned into my retinas. I suspect I’ll take that sight with me to my grave.
I reach out and touch his back. His body heaves beneath my palm and then it begins to shake. I can’t bear to witness his pain, so when he turns to me I allow him to clutch me desperately.
A moment later, I lose it too.
‘I love you, Liv,’ he sobs. ‘I don’t love her the way I love you.’
‘You’re not supposed to!’ I cry. ‘That’s not how love works. I don’t love Tom the way that I love you either. It doesn’t mean I don’t love him as deeply or as passionately, it’s just different. I don’t love him any less.’
He lets out a ragged breath and inhales just as shakily, and then he lets me go and rubs at his eyes with the heels of his palms, trying to dry his tears. I dig into my jeans pocket for tissues, passing one to him and keeping another for myself. We both blow our noses loudly.
‘What if I moved back?’ he asks, turning to look at me with red-rimmed eyes.
I stare at him in shock and note the hope flitting across his face at my response.
‘You don’t want to live in St Agnes,’ I point out shakily.
‘I would,’ he states firmly. ‘For you.’
