Every trip to the mailbox.
“I thought you forgot me,” I admitted brokenly.
Hersh closed his eyes briefly.
And for one terrible second, he looked exactly like a man grieving something he could never get back.
“Damn it,” he whispered.
Thunder cracked outside hard enough to shake the windows.
Neither of us flinched.
Because nothing hurt worse than this.
“I wrote you from Ranger school,” he said quietly, almost like he was talking to himself now. “From Georgia. Afghanistan. Germany. Hell, I even wrote from a hospital once after dislocating my shoulder.”
A sob caught in my throat.
“I kept thinking maybe the next one would make you answer.”
Oh God.
Oh God.
“Hersh…”
His eyes lifted to mine again.
Broken.
Completely broken.
And somehow still gentle when he looked at me.
“Sixteen years, Flick.”
The grief in his voice nearly destroyed me.
“Sixteen years thinking you stopped loving me.”
I covered my mouth with one shaking hand because I physically could not hold together anymore.
“I never stopped,” I whispered.
The words slipped out before fear could stop them.
Hersh went completely still.
Every bit of air disappeared from the room.
And suddenly we weren’t sitting in an apartment above a tavern anymore.
We were high school sweethearts again.
Standing at the edge of goodbye.
Still in love.
