Page 189 of The Stranger

She makes a noise of derision, and I almost reach for her. It takes every ounce of my strength to keep my arms by my side and my feet rooted to the vinyl flooring. “I’ve lost my heart.”

“You appear to be suffering from delusions.” She gives an arctic twist of her lips. “Because you don’t have a heart.”

“You’re right. I don’t. It’s not mine anymore.”

“I have never heard such self-serving bullshit!” she grates out, her arms quite suddenly in the air.

Good, she’s angry. Anger is better than indifference. Anger says there’s still something there. Love and hate are very close bedmates.

“You tell me you would never dishonor me, then you do. You lie to me. You hurt me. You put me in that awful fucking house in that awful fucking position because you didn’t have the nerve—the decency—to tell me you didn’t love me!”

Her words bleed. They should bleed me.

“But I did love you. I do. I love you more than I could put into words in any language. What I did was wrong, so very wrong, but I told myself you would be settling for me. That you have a life here.” I give a flick of my hand. “That I would be stealing from you. I told myself I wouldn’t be enough, not in the long term. That you deserved better.”

“That’s just the point, Luc. You don’t get to decide. Not for me.”

“I know,” I agree, the words falling so fast as fear grips my throat. I need to say this—I need her to understand that I’m nothing without her. “I took your agency and your dignity—I behaved no better than those teenagers in the playground. No,” I add, “what I did was much worse. I was a coward. I willfully and mindlessly lied to myself, because my actions weren’t about putting you first. It wasn’t about making your life better.”

She makes a noise, but I hurry on.

“I was afraid. Afraid of living with the sword of your loss hanging over my head, telling myself you would leave and that I couldn’t face loss again.”

I take a step toward her, though it quickly becomes clear she will leave if I do. So I halt, though every atom of my being screams to hold her.

“But you lost me anyway,” she says evenly. “How’s that working out for you?”

“It’s like grief, all over again. I will survive it. I know that now. But I don’t want to endure. I want to live my life with your love—I want to deserve your love. Will you give me the chance to earn your forgiveness, Primrose?”

She is my first bloom of spring and my last leaf of autumn, and I would spend my life honoring hers if she’d let me walk by her side through the seasons of our lives. But she remains remains stony and silent as I watch for the smallest sign that she might believe me. That she might find it in her heart to forgive me.

“What do you say, Doctor? What is your professional opinion?”

Her brow furrows as though coming back to herself.

“Your diagnosis.” I force a small smile. “Can I be saved?” Can we?

I feel her intake of breath deep in my own chest.

“You appear to be suffering from delusions,” she says, her tone very matter-of-fact. “With advanced stages of arseholery and chronic selfishness.”

“Do you think it’s terminal?” The ache in my words.

“We have to hope so,” she clips out. She turns on her heel, her next words flung over her shoulder. “Your five minutes are up.”

And then she’s gone, taking my whole heart with her.

50

PRIMROSE

“More flowers?” Trudy, the nurse in charge today, takes the arrangement from my hand. “You must have yourself a secret admirer.”

“Or maybe I steal them as I pass the crematorium,” I quip, adjusting my backpack on my shoulder.

“Hyacinths and forget-me-nots,” she says appreciatively. “Very pretty. Unusual too.”

“Yeah, a bit. Anyhoo, I’d better get on.” I duck my head and flee, though I can’t run away from my thoughts quite so efficiently. The flowers started arriving last week. Pretty arrangements sent daily to my flat, each with a card in Luc’s beautifully scribed hand.