“If that’s the way you persist in seeing this, then it’s you who has to understand, if I walk out that door, that’s what we’ll be. Nothing.”
“Christ, why?”
“Because I’m not doing this shit anymore.”
“No, babe, what I mean is, if this was your endgame, why did you come back to me?”
Come back to him?
“Knox…I was just being a friend.”
His look and his tone were full of venom when he replied, “You suck at it, Luna.”
My entire torso swung back like he’d shoved me.
And I guess he did.
Right out the door.
Which, without looking back (or grabbing my Lucky Boy), I used.
I did not go back to Lucky Boy to buy another corndog and malt.
I went home.
And I did not cry on the way home.
I only did that when I had Jacques, a dark room, my bed, that secret something I kept under my pillow, and my memories—recent and not so much—and a heartache that hurt so bad, I knew never, not in my life, would I recover.
Yes, I knew this for a fact.
I’d never recover.
Not…
Ever.
TWELVE
“I’M NOT IN LOVE”/“SHADOWBOXER”
We met at Randy’s Donuts, which were awesome, but we were a Bosa family, so it was highly unlikely anyone would catch us there, exactly why we were meeting at Randy’s.
I didn’t know why I came.
That scene a couple of weeks ago at Knox’s house, when what we were went up in smoke, was enough to end a girl.
Especially when that girl had to pretend, every day with everyone in her life, that it never happened at all.
But part of me was hoping Knox asking me here was about him having had some time to think about what he said, how he said it (loudly), his demands, that they were totally out of line, and he wanted us to figure it out and get back together.
I arrived first, which sucked.
But I was able to get my favorites, and his, and buy us both a cup of coffee, so at least I was fortified with caffeine and a couple of hits on a buttermilk glazed.
He showed…and damn.
Watching him walk in, tall, broad and beautiful?
