He began to fold the mattress. “Because,” was all he said.
“Because why?” I insisted.
“Because you’re my wife and another man has been taking care of you for the past three months when I should’ve been doing it.”
Against my will, I went even mushier.
No. No mushy feelings. None.
“Didn’t you read the sign?” I pointed at the paper still on my door, the frustration evident in my tone. Why was he being even sweeter than yesterday? The sign was supposed to deflate him, just like this mattress.
“I did.” He stuffed the bed into a cloth sack.
“I don’t need you to take care of me, okay? And you’re not staying in Seddledowne for me either.”
“I am.” He tied the drawstring on the bag.
“No, you’re not.” I stomped my foot. “Don’t you get that I don’t want you here?” Had I just stabbed myself in the stomach? Because that’s what it felt like.
He stood too. Something shifted in him—the careful neutrality cracking just enough. “Why? What’s got you so afraid? What happened, Jules?”
“You left!” My voice shook. “You leftme. Just like everyother person in my life. I can’t trust you anymore.” I hadn’t meant to say it. And yes, it was at least half my fault that things fell apart between us. But it still hurt that the one person I’d pinned all my hopes and dreams on, the one person I thought would never leave, had abandoned me. “I’m not going to trust you anymore. So just go back to Phoenix. Back to Boone and the hotshots.”
“No. I’m staying for good. I’m going to prove to you I won’t leave again. No matter how long it takes. All to pieces.”
All to pieces? What did that mean? “You’re going to uproot yourself and start over even if I divorce you?”
The D word brought a moment of panic. But then he righted himself and breathed a firm, “Yes.”
That confession froze my insides. He couldn’t be here. Not if I wanted to protect him. He needed to be as far from me as possible. “Then I’ll go.” I winced, hating that idea. I loved it here. And I’d made promises to Peyton and Ford, and I needed to be here to fulfill those promises.
It doesn’t matter. Keeping Griffin safe is more important.
“That’s cool,” he said, unruffled. “Where should we live next? I hear Alaska’s pretty in the summer. The daylight lasts anywhere from sixteen to a full twenty-four hours, depending on how north you go?—”
“No, Griff, stop?—”
“—or Savannah, Georgia, is lovely. Some of the streets are cobblestone, and they’re lined with oak trees draped in Spanish moss?—”
“I don’t love you,” I nearly shouted, sounding unhinged.
He went quiet for two breaths, not moving, and I was sure I’d finally convinced him. But in the next breath, he said, “I don’t believe you,” with a terrifying amount of confidence.
My hands went rigid. “Then you’re delusional. You’re not following me if I leave here.”
“I am.”
“You’renot,” I said through gritted teeth. “So tell the Honeyville Fire Department that you made a mistake and go get your hotshot job back.”
The corner of his mouth lifted.
“Why are you smirking?” I asked, my pulse stabbing me in the throat.
“Because.” His smirk opened into a frustratingly handsome grin. “You love me.”
“Wh-what? No. I just told you I don’t.”
“Yeah,” he said, like it barely registered. “But your actions speak much louder.”
