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“Right, that makes sense. Keep on being a self-sacrificing moron.” I punch his arm. “You really don’t have a clue, do you?”
“I did what I thought was right. I quit school just to make sure that I didn’t end up hurting you.” He glares at me. “I get it, you were hurt. You’re still mad about it. But you can at least understand why I did what I did?”
“I can understand that you’re a moron.” I hit him again. “We had something good. Have you felt anything like that since? I’m going to go ahead and embarrass myself by admitting that I freaking haven’t, not even close. And you threw it away without even talking to me first.”
“I haven’t had a relationship since you,” he says, speaking very quietly.
“Good. I mean, I don’t care. Whatever.” I let out a frustrated growl and punch him again. He doesn’t try to stop me and it’s like hitting bricks, and I’m not really trying to hurt him, but god, I’m so annoyed by his stupid little revelation. “If you’re telling me that because you want me to feel sorry for you, I definitely don’t.”
“I don’t want you to feel sorry for me. I don’t even want you to forgive me. But I do want you to understand.”
I try to punch him again, but this time he catches my wrist. I stare at him, breathing hard. “I understand you’re an idiot. You’re a big, dumb, brainless dummy.”
“Wow. Biting. I’m hurt.” He smirks at me, tightening his grip on my wrist.
“And you were wrong back then. You made the wrong decision.”
“Maybe,” he concedes. “But based on the way things are going now, I don’t know about that.”
I breathe through my nose, trying to stay calm. “I wish you had just talked to me.”
“And I wish I had done things differently too. But I didn’t. Instead, I made a hard decision, one that hurt like fucking hell, but I thought it was the right thing.”
“Saint Gian. Always sacrificing for everyone else.”
“No,tesorina. Only for you.”
I stare at him, heart racing, years of anger and bitterness coming back in one sharp moment. His explanation makes sense, and actually does take some of the sting of what happened away, but it doesn’t excuse him. If he cared about me as much as he says he did, he should’ve discussed things with me first. We could’ve come up with a better way, or at least I could’ve gotten some closure.
Instead, he’s been a gaping wound. A hurt that hasn’t healed. All these years, I kept wondering what I did wrong, how I scared him away, what was broken in me. He could’ve avoided all that by having one single difficult conversation.
“What do we do now?” I ask.
He pulls me closer. I fall onto his chest, draped across him, our mouths inches apart. His other hand laces into my hair.
“You can start getting over me.”
“I’m way over you, sweet cheeks.”
“No, baby, you aren’t. Not the guy I used to be anyway.”
“You’re so insanely conceited, it breaks my heart.”
“Get over me. That version of me is long gone. Same goes for you. We’re different people now in a different situation. I’m not going anywhere.”
I bite my lip. A lump forms in my throat. Damn him, this stinking, rotting bastard, he knows just what to say to hit me. It’s his super power, I swear.
“It’d be easy for you,” I whisper. “Just to walk away. Your family didn’t disown you.”
“I’m not leaving.”
“What about in a year? When the deal is over?”
“I don’t plan on going anywhere. If you want your freedom, you can have it.”
I bite my lip hard. I stare into his eyes, thinking about how many mistakes I’ve made to find myself here in this bed with the man I thought I hated, only to find out that my feelings are much more complicated.
And that he’s still holding onto me, or at least a piece of what we had.
