“There isn't anything I can say that will undo what happened back then,” I continue. “If you're angry because I didn't tell you about the drugs, then you have every right to be. I should have told you sooner. I was going to. I just…” I shake my head slightly. “It's not a time in my life I’m proud of. I don't like revisiting it.”
I reach for her hand on instinct. Just needing to touch her.
She moves away.
Fuck.
“Don’t touch me.” She blinks. “I can't have you touching me because I’ll forget why I’m angry… and you'll make me feel better. I don’t want that. I deserve to feel like this.”
Slowly, I lower my hands back to my sides, giving her the space she asked for, even though every part of me wanted to close the distance.
“She always gets inside my head.” Her hand shakes. “Sometimes I start thinking… Do you still love her? Are you only with me because I look like her? Because I remind you of her?”
A brittle laugh leaves her.
“Maybe she's right. Maybe I would be better off with my dad, so you can go back to her.”
No.
Before she can move away again and talk absolute bullshit, I reach for her. I take her hand in mine and ease the vodka out of the other one, setting it down on the coffee table.
“Elijah, don't." She whispers.
But I do.
I draw her into me, firm but careful, like I’m grounding something that's about to tip over.
“Listen to me,” I say quietly, but there's no room for argument in my tone. “You can be angry with me. You can hate me for not telling you sooner, or shut me out if you need to. But you do not get to believe that you would be better off dead.”
I cradle her face in my hands, ensuring she's looking at me—not past me or through me.
“You are not her. You don't think like her. You don't love like her. You don't break people the way she does.”
My forehead rests against hers.
“I don't love her,” I say plainly. “I haven't loved her in years. What I feel for you isn't a replacement. It isn't nostalgia, and it isn't familiarity.”
I breathe her in, steadying both of us.
“I lo… care about who you are. Not her.”
My thumbs brush beneath her eyes.
“I don't want a life that doesn't have you in it. I don't even like picturing it.”
My voice softens, even though I am so fucking pissed off inside because of Rose.
“So don't ever tell me you'd be better off gone. I can't bear that. Not from you.”
She doesn't fight me this time.
The resistance drains out of her slowly, and I watch it happen—the anger fading as she cries more, and I swipe her tears away. I’ll always make sure to dry her tears for the rest of my time.
“Maybe we should stop this.”
That's a terrible idea.
“What?” I ask in disbelief.
