"I was protecting you," he argues.
"From what? From being happy? From having someone hold my hand at a movie without getting their jaw broken?" My voice is shaking. "I was nineteen, and I thought that boy just didn't like me. I cried for a week. I stopped eating. I thought I was so ugly and boring that a guy couldn't even be bothered to text me back. And the whole time it was you."
He doesn't look away.
"Do you know what that does to a person?" I'm in his face now, fists clenched, tears running down my cheeks, but my voice is steel. "Year after year of no one wanting you? I stopped trying. I stopped putting myself out there. I stopped believing anyone could ever look at me and think I was enough. And it was all because of you."
"Yes," he says. No excuse. No justification.
"You ruined me before you ever touched me," I cry out to him.
"I know."
"And you're proud of it.”
His jaw tightens. "I'm not proud of what it did to you. I'm proud that no one could have you."
"That's the same thing!" I shove his chest, and he barely moves. "You can't separate those two things. You kept me lonely so you could keep me for yourself. My pain was the price, and you paid it with my self-worth."
I'm breathing hard, confused by everything. He's standing in front of me, taking every hit, and the worst part is he's not fighting back. He's not grabbing my wrists or pinning me to a wall or shutting me up with his cock. He's just standing there letting me tear into him, and that makes me angrier because Idon't know what to do with a version of him that doesn't fight back.
"I hate you," I say, but my voice cracks on the word, and we both hear it.
"No, you don't."
"No, I don’t, but I should."
"You should." He reaches out and wipes a tear off my cheek with his thumb. "But you don't, because now you know the truth. You were never unlovable, Summer. You were never invisible. You were never worthless. You were wanted every single day for the last seven years by someone who would have burned the world down to keep you."
"That doesn't make it okay." I sniffle.
"I know it doesn't, and I’m sorry. I should have … I don’t know,” he says, running his large hand through his dark hair.
"It doesn't fix what you did to my head," I explain to him.
"I know," he says, and he looks ashamed.
"Stop saying I know."
He cups my face and I let him. I hate that I let him, but my hands are shaking, my legs are weak, and the anger is still there, but underneath it, it feels like relief. Because he's right, I wasn't unlovable. I was just loved too much by the wrong person at the wrong time in the wrong way.
"I will spend the rest of my life making it up to you," he says quietly. "I don't expect you to forgive me. I just need you to know that every second you spent thinking you weren't enough was a lie. You were always enough to me. You are my everything."
I close my eyes as the tears keep coming.
"Show me," I whisper. "Stop talking and show me how sorry you are."
He doesn't hesitate as his mouth crashes into mine, hands sliding into my hair, holding me there like he's terrified I'll pull away. I can taste salt from my tears and warmth from his mouth,and I kiss him back because I don't know what else to do with everything I'm feeling.
When he pulls back, his forehead rests against mine. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, voice rough. “I’m so fucking sorry for the way I’ve treated you. For not giving you a choice. For treating you like something I could own instead of someone I’ve been in love with for years.”
I don’t know what to say, my throat is tight.
He kisses me again, slower, deeper, like he’s trying to prove everything with his mouth, and then he lifts me, turns me toward the rolling ladder, and sets my hands on the rungs.
“Climb,” he says against my ear.
I grip the ladder and step up, one rung, two, three. The T-shirt rides up over my ass as the cool air hits my bare skin. He’s right behind me, hands running up my thighs, pushing the shirt higher.
