“I don’t know what we are. Do you? I know that we’re at least friends. At least I thought we were. I don’t know what else we are. We met in person for the first time seventy-two hours ago. And all of this is happening so fast. And I have no idea what any of it means. And now you’re mad at me for something I had absolutely no control over. I don’t know what you want me to say here.”
“I don’t know what I want you to say, either. Maybe I just want you to stop fucking defending him. Stop talking about what a nice guy he is. Because he’s not a nice guy. He’s a douche canoe who cheated on you. And if you’ve been interested at all, he would’ve cheated on his fiancé just now. So I want you to stop fucking defending him.”
“That’s what this is about? You’re mad that I won’t say shitty things about Tripp?”
“Maybe. Yeah. I guess I am. Because the guy is clearly an asshole, and I don’t know why you’re still working for a stupid fucking company, and I don’t know why you won’t admit he’s an asshole.”
“I’m still working for that company, because it’s my job. Because I invested years in that company before I started dating Tripp, and I don’t think that I should have to start my career over again just because he and I broke up. Yeah, if I had other options, maybe I would take them right now. But my career shouldn’t have to take a hit just because he couldn’t keep his zipper up.”
“No, it shouldn’t. And that’s one of the reasons why I get mad when you continue to paint him a nice guy.”
“Maybe I keep saying he’s a nice guy, because if I say he’s an asshole, then that makes me look stupid. Yes, I could insist that he’s a dick and a manipulator and a user. If he’s all of those things, then what am I? We dated for over a year. I’m not saying that I loved him. But I thought we might have a future together. I thought he was what I wanted.
“Now that I know who he really is, I know he’s not what I want. I don’t want with Delaney has. Now that I have some distance from the relationship, I have zero interest in going back, but I’m also not going to beat myself up for being with him.”
I pause then, sucking in one deep breath after another.
Nick muttered a curse under his breath, turning to stalk several feet down the beach, before turning back around. Now there’s this distance between us and he still wearing those stupid aviator glasses. So I still can’t read his expression.
“Say something.”
“Jesus, Cassie.” He digs his foot into the sand, like a racehorse pawing at the ground, champing at the bit. “I never meant for you to feel like that. I don’t think less of you for being with him. And yeah, I always thought he was an asshole. But I always thought he was an asshole because he had you and I didn’t.”
I’m shaking my head, trying to make sense of his words. “I don’t—”
“Don’t tell me you don’t feel this, too. Because I know you do.”
“That wasn’t what I was going to say.”
“Okay,” he takes a few steps closer, and finally, he pushes his sunglasses up to the top of his head. “Then what were you going to say?”
“I don’t know,” I admit. “I don’t know what to say. I don’t know what to think.”
“Then forget what to think. What do you feel?”
“Forget what I think? Do you have any idea how hard that is for me to do? To not think about how this could go wrong? About all the ways this could end badly for me? For us? Even when you’re not deployed, you’re stationed in Coronado, halfway across the country from me. And you’re—”
I just gesture at him, inanely trying to sum up the general awesomeness of everything about him. He’s a SEAL. He’s practically a superhero.
I can tell how badly I’m doing it all, because that stern, serious expression of his has morphed into a downright scowl. “I’m what?”
“You’re…” —and I still don’t know how to describe it. How to put it into words— “You’re you. You’re larger than life.”
“And you still haven’t told me how you feel.”
“About what?” I know I’m deflecting, trying to put off the answer, because maybe if I can refine the question enough, the answer will come to me.
“About us. About me.”
Okay, nope. I didn’t help at all. That’s a very specific question. And I still don’t know the answer.
As if he knows I’m stumbling, he answers for me.
“I know how I feel. I love you.”
“Nick, you’re a good guy. If you say you think you love me, then I’m sure that’s what you think you feel. But I don’t know how to trust that that’s real. Tripp said he loved me. We made plans for our future. We talked about whether we wanted kids and what kind of dog breeds we liked. And then that all blew up in my face.”
“You don’t believe I love you?”
