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Not trust me.
But…
Leave me.
Divorce me.
Hurt me.
“I need to go,” I whisper. “I need to?—”
He catches my arm when I turn away, when I start for the door, drawing me against him. “No,” I say andshove lightly at his shoulders, but not hard because, God, I can’t bear to hurt him.
Even after all of this, I can’t bear to hurt him.
“I need to go,” I say again.
“Brit, baby. Take a breath,” he pleads. “We can talk?—”
“I need to go.”
“I made a mistake,” he says. “I see that now.”
“A mistake.” I laugh, but it’s not filled with humor, not in the fucking least.
“Sweetheart—”
“I need to fucking go,” I pull myself free, back toward the door. “I really need to go.”
He takes my arm, draws me against him. “Baby?—”
It’s too much—the scent of him surrounding me, the warmth of his body, the sense of rightness each and every time his skin comes in contact with mine.
Because it is right.
And it’s wrong.
All of this is wrong.
I jerk away from him, spin toward the door.
“Don’t go,” he says as I reach for the handle.
That drags through me like a dull blade—jagged and painful and brutally—and my fingers convulse on the doorknob, spasming against the cold metal.
I clamp my eyes closed.
A tear slips free anyway, sliding down my cheek, dripping off my jaw.
But when I feel him coming closer, the force holding me in place disappears.
I wrench at the knob, pull the wooden panel wide. Dan—as expected—is standing at the end of the hall, a silent sentry who sees right through any semblance of the mask I manage to erect.
My footsteps falter.
And then he’s there, tucking an arm around my shoulders, but when he starts to guide me down the hall, I see the stained carpet.
He’s cleaned up the glass I dropped, the remnants of my snack.
