And by the way Abigail lifts her chin, and the lack of surprise on her face, she knows. She’s always known.
Everyone has always known what I’ve never admitted to myself.
The photo evidence of the men passing through Lyra’s life, is bad enough. Lyra being the Suitorette is like an open invitation that she has given up on all of these other men.
Given up on me.
If Lyra was to fall in love with any of them, that would be its own form of torture.
I would get over it. I would deal. But Abigail is right—I would never forgive myself for not taking a chance to see what we could be together.
“I don’t know…”I don’t know what you’re talking about, is what I should say. The words are forming in my head, moving to my mouth.Of course I’m not in love with Princess Lyra. I’m in love with you.
That’s what I should say.
But it’s not what comes out.
“I don’t know if I’m in love with her,” I confess, keeping my gaze out on a point at the horizon. How many kilometers away is Saint Pierre? I may not have spoken to the king, but I did look up Lyra’s itinerary and that’s where she is.
She should have arrived in Saint Pierre by now.
“Or you.”
Abigail sucks in her breath but when I finally turn to her, there’s no sign of surprise on her face.
“I’m sorry.” I take Abigail’s hand and she lets me. I want to pull it to my chest, to take back those words, but I can’t.
There is love between me and Abigail, and there are years of friendship and she deserves the truth.
“I wanted to be in love with you so much,” I tell her. “And I tried. I really did, because we’re so good together. It’s so easy with you.”
“That’s not why you stay with someone,” she says drily but still lets me keep her hand.
“I do love you—”
“But Lyra gets in the way,” she finishes. “It’s my own fault. I’ve always known you have this weird co-dependent relationship with her.”
“Co-dependent?”
She gives me a small smile. “I like to believe that’s what it is. It makes me feel better.”
“Abigail…”
“I know you’re in love with her, Spence. You have been since you were a kid. I just hoped our history could have beat it out of you.”
I laugh awkwardly. “That doesn’t sound pleasant.”
“Neither does hearing you admitting you’re in love with her.”
“I didn’t admit it,” I point out. “I don’t know if I’m in love with her.”
“But you are something.” She finally pulls her hand away from mine. “And you’re not in love with me.”
“Abigail…”
“Please.” She puts up her hand. “You love me—I know that. But as friends. I’m someone you care about. But you’re not in love with me. There’s a difference, you know.”
Oh, I know. It’s not the first time I’ve been accused of being a horrible boyfriend.
