“I need some space.”
I’m moving before I can stop myself, grabbing my bag from where I dropped it on the counter and heading for the door. My vision is blurry. My chest is tight. I can’t breathe in here, can’t think, can’t be near him without falling apart completely.
“Winnie, wait—”
I don’t wait.
I push through the front door, nearly colliding with Zayden on the steps. He catches my arm, steadying me, his eyes widening when he sees my face.
“Winnie? What—”
“I’m fine,” I manage. “I just—I have to go.”
I pull away and keep moving, past Logan, Rhys, and Weston, who are frozen near the truck, their faces registering confusion and concern. I hear Banks behind me, calling my name, his footsteps on the stairs.
“Winnie! Wait, please—”
I don’t turn around.
I get in my car and catch a glimpse of Banksin my rearview mirror—standing on the sidewalk, looking gutted, Zayden’s hand on his shoulder holding him back—and then I pull away from the curb, putting distance between us.
The tears come before I make it to the end of the block.
I pull over somewhere—a random street—and let myself sob. Ugly crying, the kind that makes your whole body shake, the kind you can only do alone because it’s too raw for witnesses.
I said I loved him.
I said I loved him, and he just stood there.
Now I don’t know if I’ve lost him forever or if I ever really had him at all.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Unraveling
Banks
She saidlove.
She said she couldn’t be with someone who wouldn’t let her love them.
The words have been playing on repeat in my head for hours—a broken record, skipping and stuttering, refusing to let me rest.
She loves me. Or she could have loved me. Or she wanted to love me. I don’t know which tense applies anymore, and the uncertainty is eating me alive.
I’m lying on my couch at two in the morning, staring at the ceiling. The apartment is dark. Silent. The kind of empty that presses in on you, reminding you that you’re alone, that you’ve always been alone, and that you’ll probably die alone because you’re too goddamn broken to let anyone stay.
My phone is in my hand. I’ve typed and deleted approximately forty-seven messages to Winnie, each one more pathetic than the last.
I’m sorry.
Can we talk?
I didn’t mean to hurt you.
I don’t know how to do this, but I want to learn.
I think I love you too, and it scares the shit out of me.
