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"Meg, we're not"
"I know. It's just… you know how this feels. It hurts for such a long time. Then one day you wake up and it doesn't hurt quite as much, and you're not sure how you're supposed to deal with that."
He shifts, melting into me. His breath warms my neck but he says nothing.
I turn my attention to the tombstone. "Rosie would've warned me about you."
"That right?"
"Absolutely." I play with a blade of grass. My shoulders tense. I roll them back and take a deep breath. It's a little easier. A little softer.
The last few months have been difficult between school and work and Miles making me lose track of which way is up and which way is down. But it doesn't hurt as much anymore. It's a dull ache instead of a crushing pain.
"I'm sorry," I say to someone, maybe Rosie, maybe myself. "I wish I'd stopped running sooner. I should never have let you get away with lying to me. But I understand now, how it starts. It's one lie, one temptation. Then it snowballs into something you can't control." I run my fingers over the tombstone, tracing the letters in her name. "I'm sorry. I love you, and I miss you, and mostly, I forgive you."
My exhale is long and deep. It's like there isn't an ounce of oxygen left in my body. I forgive my sister for lying to me. I forgive my parents for trying to cope. I forgive myself for missing all the signs she was drowning.
I forgive myself for running from the pain. But I'm done running.
The muscles of my back relax. I'm a puddle again, taking shape around Miles. He holds me close, the way he would if he really loved me.
We stay like that for minutes. It's calm, intimate.
Slowly, I push myself to my feet and walk back to the car.
He runs his fingers over my neck. "Hey."
"Hey."
"Look at me."
I turn so we're eye to eye.
"We still have those same terms—no lies?"
"Yeah."
His expression gets serious. "I have to ask you something."
Miles is reminding me about honesty? That's rich, but I guess I can entertain him. "What?"
"Do you have feelings for me?"
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Do I have feelings for Miles? A few come to mind—frustration, confusion, lust. But that's not what he's asking.
He's asking if I love him. If I'm in love with him.
It's hard to breathe. I can't love Miles.
He doesn't trust me. He doesn't respect me.
My inhale breaks up the tension in my throat. He plays everything casual. I can do the same.
"Mostly frustration," I say. "That what you mean?"
"You know what I'm asking."
