He won’t look at me. Won’t meet my eyes. My mother brought me over to introduce me to his wife earlier, and Aidan … walked away. Can’t say I blame him, though it hurts nonetheless.
I’ve burned many bridges.
Have so many regrets.
So. Many.
With that thought, my eyes flick back to Steph. Again. Always. I’m unable to tear my gaze from her for too long now we’re actually in the same room together. Well, tent, if you want to get technical about it. The ceiling of the tent is strung with thousands of little twinkle lights that cast a warm glow over the space and pickup the honey highlights in her blonde hair. My gaze coasts over her delicate features. Pale pink lips, so plump and inviting … high cheekbones … and those soft brown eyes. Deep pools of chocolate that used to look at me like I was her world. Eyes that only met with mine once tonight before they quickly looked away. Not fast enough, though. Not before I was able to take in the shock there, and the sadness. I’m not surprised the sight of me would elicit those emotions in her, but somehow that sadness seemed deeply ingrained. Like it might be a longtime companion of hers and not something kindled by my presence here tonight and the reminder of what we once were.
Despite her beauty, Steph looks tired. Like the years have taken their toll, though not on her body, on her heart. There’s a weight to her shoulders that I suspect she’s been carrying for a good long while. She appears to hide it well—laughing and celebrating with her friends—but despite the time that’s passed, I know her. I’ve always known her.
And Iseeher.
I see her pain.
My heart clenches at the thought of what might have caused it.Who.
I know I hurt her all those years ago, but … I can’t be the reason for this— this—
This soul-deep hurt I see in her.
Can I?
The night wears on. Again and again, my eyes find Steph.
I take in the smooth column of her throat, easily visible with the short, bobbed haircut she now sports. So very different from the long, thick mane of waves that fell halfway down her back when we were teenagers, but it suits her more mature look.
I take in the delicateness of her hands and her pale pink nail polish as she raises her champagne glass to toast the happy couple.
Hands I used to hold.
I take in the hint of cleavage beneath the neckline of her otherwise conservative dress, and the way that dress nonetheless hugs her curves.
Curves I once traced with my palms and long to feel again.
I take in the way the fabric smooths over her hips and swishes around her legs as she dances with her friends.
The way her toned calves look in those heels.
And when the soft lights overhead cast shadows across her bare shoulders, I remember the place where I used to nuzzle into her, the little divot of her collarbone where I used to kiss her. I remember the smell of her skin and the citrusy scent of her shampoo. I wonder if she still uses it. If she still smells like my Steph.
Mine?
What a joke.
I lost the right to call her that a long time ago.
Sixteen years ago, to be exact. And the pain of that—of missing her like I’d miss an organ or a limb—has never dulled.
She’s the one that got away.
The one Idroveaway, I correct myself.
Still, she’s the love of my life, and I never thought I’d see her again. Never let myself imagine it, though I knew I’d hold the memory of her in my mind and in my heart forever.
I never thought I’d see her again, but now that I have, one thing is certain. Though I know I don’t deserve it, I have to try.
I’ll do anything to get her back.
