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Swiping my thumbs over her cheeks, I hold her gaze on me. “Is that the disaster your brother was talking about?”
“You heard.”
“Not everything, just enough.” And although I told her she didn’t have to talk to me about it, I want her to. I want to know the depth of her hurt, and I want a shot at least at making it better. “Talk to me, Angel. I need to understand why you keep fighting me…this…us?”
“Can we get out of here first?”
“Sure.”
I don’t let her out of my sight for one second. Not when we finish showering or when we’re getting dry. Not a single moment goes by that I don’t put myself in her line of sight so that she knows we’re not done.
Throwing the gray shorts and t-shirt she left Maggie’s place wearing last week on her bed, Rosie gets dressed before sitting on the edge of the bed waiting for me. It’s obvious she’s anxious about talking, and while I want to force her to, deep down I know that she’ll resent me for it. Maybe I don’t care about what the rest of the world thinks about me, but I care about what she thinks and feels, even what she sees when she looks at me.
Sitting beside her, as close as I can, I tug her hand away from her mouth. Her thumb is red and raw where she’s been biting on it.
“We don’t have to talk, Rosie,” I say, lacing our hands together. Her light skin contrasts with my tanned one, making me smile at the sight. “And I can leave if it’s what you want.” A sidelong glance greets me with trepidation. “I don’t want to. I want to stay and I want you to talk to me. Maybe I can understand why it’s so hard for you to believe that you are beautiful to me and accept that I will come back to see you. Is it me?”
“No,” she replies quickly, eyes bugging like it’s the worst thing I could think. “It’s not you, Brody.”
“Then what is it?”
“It’s hard to explain.”
“We’ve got time.”
“Three days.” Rosie glances down at our hands with a frown while her thumb strokes over the scar.
“Three days now, and then I’ll be gone for three weeks before we have more days.”
“It’s hard for me to believe that you’ll come back here when you go back to your normal life.”
“Come back here in general or come back here for you?”
With a shrug, she takes a deep breath, fingers tightening around my hand. “I find it hard to trust my judgment when it comes to guys.” A frown pinches her lips. I’m about to ask for more when she swivels to face me, her other hand tracing our joined ones. “You ever get a sinking feeling before something big happens? You think everything is perfect but your insides are strangling themselves.”
“Impending doom.”
“I guess. Yes.”
“It was a constant feeling when my mother looked at a bottle of liquor, and sometimes when I look at it now, I still feel it.”
“But you—” she pauses with a scrunched brow, confusion darkening her eyes to a deep moss. “You helped me at the pub.”
“If I allowed myself to be held back by a feeling, I wouldn’t be who I am. If I allowed it to rule me and dictate what I do with my life, I wouldn’t be a champion. Maybe I’d be as lost as my mom was. I don’t know.”
“I used to go to church every Sunday, it was the way since I was born, since I can remember”—she swallows, focusing on my scar—“I haven’t been in one for over a year. Every time I walk past it, it’s like being jilted all over again. I have this vision of everyone watching me walk to my seat with whispers of why they think Tyler broke off our engagement the day before our wedding.”
The hurt in her stuttered breath twists my insides. It’s bitter and deep, and it makes my blood boil in my veins.
“He left me practically standing at the altar with nothing but a phone call because this town wasn’t enough for him and it’s where I belong. But he never hinted that he was unhappy here, he never even asked me if I would go with him. Not once—not one fucking time.”
I’ve got every fucking curse ready to shoot at the bastard that’s hurt her like this—enough to cry these heavy tears over him. Maybe I’m as much of a bastard too because not only am I pissed and jealous that she’s crying over him, but I can’t help but think how stunning she is even like this.
Slipping a hand free of her hold, I swipe my thumb over one cheek and then the other, telling her, “He did you a favor.”
“Did he?”
“If he wasn’t man enough to look you in the eyes when he broke your heart, then the asshole didn’t deserve you.”
