“I tried to walk away.”
She goes still as our eyes lock, and I need her to keep listening.
“I was pissed, but I swear I only walked up to his door to tell him to keep his distance, and then I was gonna just… walk away.”
It’smyvoice that breaks this time, so I pause, needing to keep my shit together so she hears me.
“He kept saying shit about you being miserable, about how you deserved better, and part of me thought he was right. That’s what fucked me up, and I—”
I stop myself again, needing to calm down. At this point, raw honesty is all I have going for me, so I’m putting it all out there, laying it all on the line.
I let her wrist slip from my grasp.
“I saw red. I hate that about myself.” My throat tightens, and I can’t even look at her anymore. “I know it doesn’t look like it right now, but I am trying. You don’t see it because I keep fucking up, but I swear to you. I’m trying.”
My chest heaves as more comes flooding out.
“I’m doing everything I can not to become my father. Everything I can not to become the guy everyone in this city thinks I am. Everything I can not to lose you.”
My eyes sting and blur, but I hold it together.
“Forgive me for taking so long to get it right.”
I feel her stare but still can’t look up. I’m terrified what I’ll find if I do. Disappointment, indifference, disgust.
“I hear you,” she says softly. “And Iwantto forgive you, but… I’m scared, West. Scared to keep holding out hope, scared to keep thinking things will get better.”
That lands, and I’m ashamed of how I’ve worn her down, stolen the last ounces of hope she had for us.
Deep down, I know I have no right to keep asking her to be patient, but I don’t have a choice. If she goes, I won’t survive it.
“One last chance,” I say under my breath, stepping closer. “Please. I know I don’t deserve it, but please.”
Her eyes are fixed on my hands—the dried blood, the swelling. Her expression softens like seeing the wounds on my knuckles just made this all real for her.
Tension flexes in her jaw before she moves past me, and my heart lurches. My immediate thought is that she’s leaving, but she stops at the sink instead. I stare as she dampens a paper towel, then grabs the first-aid kit from the drawer.
She comes close again. “Sit down.”
I lower onto the chair, and she takes the seat across from me. My hand warms when she lifts it, examining the gashes on my knuckles. She dabs them clean with the paper towel, thenplaces a dot of ointment on a square of gauze. I hold still while she tapes it in place, then she gets up to discard the wrappings in the trash.
She lingers near the counter, clearly avoiding my eyes.
“Your shoulder’s okay?”
I shrug a little. “Okay enough.”
She gives a weak nod.
Another loaded pause, then she pushes off from the cabinet, and I know what this is, know what she intends to do, and I’m desperate to stop it.
“You should get some rest. I—”
She moves toward the door, and I stand, placing my hand gently on her stomach. “I’m not trying to make you feel trapped. I just… can you just… stay?”
She doesn’t respond, and it makes my heart race.
“Tonight,” I clarify. “Just tonight.”
