“That’s not fair.”
“No?” He stepped closer now, and I wished he hadn’t because the warmth of him was worse than distance. “Tell me something, Texas. If I was just Drew Travers with no Montgomery behind me, no money, no CNBC father, no family gates, no possible draft buzz, would you still be standing here crying because I’m leaving?”
“Yes.”
“Would you?”
“Yes.”
His eyes searched mine like he wanted to believe me so badly it hurt him.
Then the doubt won.
“That’s the problem,” he said. “I don’t know anymore.”
I pressed a hand to my chest because something there felt physically broken.
“You do know.”
“No. I know your body wants me. I know you like my hands. I know you like my house. I know you like the way people look when you walk into a room with me. I know you like that I show up.”
“That’s not all.”
“Then why is it so damn hard for you to say the rest?”
The room went silent.
Because there it was.
The word waiting between us.
The one he had almost said in airports and beds and whispered into my hair when he thought I was asleep.
The one I had heard.
The one I had carried around like contraband.
I love you.
It sat on my tongue, heavy and terrified.
Drew watched me.
Waiting.
Still, stupidly waiting.
And I hated myself because I loved him.
I loved him so much I could feel it in my bones.
But saying it now, with his suitcase open and my mother’s ugly voice still echoing downstairs, felt like handing him something desperate instead of true. Like proving him right. Like only reaching for the truth because he was already halfway out the door.
“I do know,” I said.
His face closed.
Not enough.
