I dredge up the image of my younger self from that last conversation. In my mind then, I was terrified of losing my shot. Of being turned away from my life’s dream because I’d be tarred with the same brush. Finally, I manage, “Why didn’t you ever reach out? Correct me?”
She looks at me like I’ve grown a second head. “Because by the time I had all the proof, your life choices were public at OPU. Besides, it’s not like you were pining away in some ethereal bubble, Brennan.”
The words are like getting checked from behind. They hurt and there’s no debate around my actions.
“You never defended me. You pulled away like I would disgrace you. So, why did you deserve to know what really happened?”
My throat burns. “You’re right. I didn’t deserve to know since I left.”
To punctuate her righteous anger, she points out, “You never once checked on me and we were together for years. Years. What does that say about you?”
I deserve the condemnation. Still, I can’t help but shift closer. I stop short of touching her when I ask, “Then why…tonight?”
She meets my gaze. “I don’t need to justify myself. But if I have to…it was the last thing I did for the girl who loved you.”
Agony surges through me as she goes on, “I hope that you understand this…intimacy…doesn’t rewrite our history.”
It’s entirely possible my heart is bleeding out from the damage I caused. I swallow hard, grasping for something—anything—that might keep her from walking away.
I manage, “I want to make us right.”
Surprising me, Amy lays her hand over my heart. The heat of it burns through my shirt. “That’s not your choice, Brennan. It’s mine.”
Emotions churn inside me—admiration, anger on her behalf, and regret sharp enough to cut.
“I hear you,” I say. “But I’m not pretending this—us—never mattered. Not then and not now.”
Her face gives nothing away before she nods slowly. It’s just acknowledgement. “It’s time for you to go.”
Then she opens the door. I step outside. Instead of a theatrical slam behind me, there’s just the sound of the latch catching before the deadbolt snaps into place. I stand on the other side of it frozen after experiencing my first real emotional connection in eight years.
A sob tries to work its way up, so I bite down on my fist to stifle the sound. I want to break down the door and beg her to listen to me. I want to sit here until morning, when the door might open after I replay every touch of her lips on mine, every brush of her bare skin against mine.
But, everything I’d say would be excuses.
The worst part? I deserve every ounce of pain I’m feeling.
Every word Amy’s spoken to me since I moved here is playing on repeat in my head.
“I already have closure from the past. Don’t penalize yourself when you find out the truth.”
She’s right. Amy had tried to give me the chance to believe in her and I didn’t until someone else corroborated her story. Shuffling away from her door to my truck, I feel like my entire sense of self has been rewritten. Once I’m behind the wheel, I sit there without turning over the engine.
I fling open the door just before I lose what’s in my stomach. Swiping my hand across my mouth, I wonder,How did she do it?
I can’t change what happened between us, despite desperately wanting to travel back in time to that exact moment where I burst into her dorm room. Now I’m sitting outside her apartment remembering the barest brush of her lips on my mouth like a brand, the feel of her body pressed against mine, her wet heat clenching around my cock and I can’t figure out how to fix this.
Fix myself.
That’s when I realize, I can’t. Not with words. Not with apologies. Not with platitudes like “I was wrong” and “I’m sorry.” Sorry is for when you forget to add an extra shot of espresso to someone’s coffee order before a final, not for carelessly dismissing the person you love.
Still, I need to try to get to the bottom of why I did this.
Closing the door, I stare through the windshield.
I can’t go back. There’s only forward. That means getting to know Amy all over again. The girl I knew is a memory—a shattered one at that. I don’t know who she is anymore but I want to because the woman who just faced me in her home is stronger than the men who used to challenge me on the ice. Somehow, some way, she maintained her compassion, her spirit, despite everything that happened to her.
I don’t know what she loves now. Who she trusts. What keeps her up at night. What makes her laugh. And I sure as hell can’t quiz her like I’m entitled to a crash course.
