All this time away for... nothing.
I didn’t find myself. I didn’t magicallyEat, Pray, Lovemy way into better feelings. I just stayed at my best friend's house, crying myself to sleep every night. Dr. Reeves told me it would take time to come to terms with everything that happened, but when I look at Zach, all I want is to go back to when it was just us, hiding out in my room as we talked about the future.
Well, the future’s here, and it’s nothing like I wanted.
Tears start to well, and I choke up as we sway gently to the music. The second our eyes meet, he says, “I've missed you, Honeycomb.”
So much for being strong. I blackmailed my own father, helped set up my ex-fiancé with his dream life, yet when I hear Zach say my nickname, I feel like crumbling.
It’s too much.
Clearing my throat, I blink away the tears and change the subject.
“Congratulations on being the overall first-round pick,” I say. “I know how much you fought to get it, and it’s well deserved.”
He visibly swallows, studying me as we sway.
“Thanks. Did you watch?” His hand squeezes mine.
“You know I did.” My voice is quiet, and I suddenly find the button on his shirt incredibly fascinating. “You responded to my text.”
He chuckles. “I did. You were the only one who got a response. Everyone else I cared about was there.”
I nod, not sure what I’m supposed to do with that admission.
“Still didn’t feel right without you by my side.”
My breath hitches just as his fingers flex against my hips.
No. No. No.
We can’t do this.
I take a sharp breath and close my eyes, doing my best to regain my composure.
“Zach, you can't say things like that.”
“Why not?”
“Because we aren’t together anymore. We haven’t been for a long time.”
“Believe me.” His jaw flexes, his hand squeezes mine just a fraction. “I know.”
I shake my head, staring at the collar of his suit instead of his face. It’s unfair how good he looks like this, all grown, polished, and broad shouldered. The NFL Zach Evans feels a lot different than the boy who waited by my car asking if I was into role-play.
“Did getting away help?” he mumbles so quietly, I almost don't hear it over the music. “Did you find yourself?”
I hate him for asking. I hate that he sees right through me, and I’m going to have to answer this honestly.
“No,” I admit aloud for the first time.
His eyes drag over my face.
“Yeah,” he murmurs. “I guessed that. Otherwise—”
He lets the sentence trail off. He doesn't need to finish it for me to know what he was going to say.
Otherwise, you would've come home.
