“But not the way you love me. Not the way I promised. Not the way marriage deserves.”
Georgia’s tears spilled faster now.
“Then why did you ask me?”
I stared at the ring on her finger.
“Because I thought choosing you would make me better.”
She recoiled a little.
Not physically.
Worse.
Inside.
“Wow.”
“I know.”
“No.” Her voice went flat in that dangerous way hurt people got when pain finally became bigger than tears. “I don’t think you do.”
“Georgia—”
“You asked me to marry you as a redemption project?”
“No.”
She laughed, sharp and wounded. “That is exactly what you just said.”
“I cared about you.”
“I know you cared about me!” she snapped.
The monitor jumped.
I did too, then regretted it when pain tore up my side.
Georgia saw it. For one second, instinct moved across her face—the urge to come closer, check me, soothe me.
She stopped herself.
Good.
She had to stop.
We both did.
“I know you cared,” she said, quieter. “That’s the part that makes me feel insane. You weren’t cruel. You weren’t some cold man using me for fun. You met my parents. You studied with me. You fixed my sink. You remembered my coffee. You proposed on the beach and your hands were shaking.”
They had been.
“I thought that meant something,” she whispered.
“It did.”
“But not enough.”
