Page 73 of Waiting for You

"I don't want to keep dissecting this tonight," she said. "But you can think about what I said."

"Okay," I said.

I understood her boundary. As composed as she was about the breakup, there was something twisted about being dumped and then immediately asked to psychoanalyze the other person's baggage. We hadn't been in love, but a failed agreement was still a failure, and there was a weight to that. I had no right to lean on her any further.

I lay back against the mattress and stared at the white ceiling.

If Sloane's brand of love wasn't about bracing against the storm together but about standing in front of it so I wouldn't take the hit, it changed the architecture of our history. I just didn't know how. It still left me in a dynamic where she made enormous decisions I hadn't been consulted on, deciding what trauma I could handle and what I couldn't without ever letting me weigh in on the risk. That still felt wrong.

But I held onto the thought anyway, the same protective way my thumb kept finding the velvet ring box through the fabric of my jacket. I wanted to see what it felt like to carry it.

Breakfast the next morning happened at the same table, the same expensive chairs, the same view of the crashing water, but the first detail my brain registered was Sloane sitting alone in the seat Andrew usually took. Eliza settled into the chair beside me. Simon and Violet strolled in a few minutes later, there was a brief round of good mornings, and then the table lapsed into an uncomfortable silence.

Eliza leaned into my space.

"Is she okay?" she whispered, her eyes on Sloane.

I looked across the table. Sloane sat rigid with her black coffee untouched, her gaze fixed somewhere miles past the pavilion, her pale hands folded in her lap. The shadows under her eyes hadn't been there a day ago, and she'd touched neither cup nor spoon since we sat down.

"I don't know," I murmured back.

I reached across the table for the coffee pot, and my eyes locked onto hers. I cocked an eyebrow, a silent question. She held my gaze a half-second before looking away, staring back out toward the water.

"Wait, where's Andrew?" Violet asked, clocking that the headcount was off.

Sloane wrapped both hands around her mug.

"He left the estate," she announced, toneless. "Something came up at work. He had to fly back."

Violet stared at her. Simon became fascinated by his black coffee. I watched Sloane's pale face: the tight line of her mouth, the way her eyes refused to land on anything in the room. I thought about what that excuse probably meant, my brain flashing back to the devastation in the dark corridor, and I wanted to ask if she was okay. I kept my mouth shut.

My bruised ego didn't get the right to speak here. I had no idea what had happened in her suite last night. I had no idea if the argument between us had triggered whatever haunted expression was on her face now. Whatever assumption I made now was the same one that had detonated our relationship the first time.

But she wasn't okay. The damage was plain enough from across the table; I didn't need to diagnose the cause to read the symptoms.

EIGHTEEN

XAVIER

Sloane retreated to her suite right after breakfast.

The four of us sat in a suffocating silence over our coffee. Simon signaled the waiter to refill his cup. Violet stared at the empty archway Sloane had disappeared through, then turned her evaluating gaze onto me.

"She's clearly going through something," she observed. "Should we call a pause on the itinerary?"

Eliza set her mug down on its saucer. "I think that's a good idea," she agreed. "I'm ready to go back. I have a pile of work I've been ignoring."

"I need to head back to the city too," I added. I looked at Violet and Simon. "Don't follow us back," I instructed. "Stay here. This is your honeymoon."

Violet opened her mouth to argue, then waved a hand. "We've already enjoyed the best parts of it. And I need to get back to my manuscript. Simon has to get back to the firm."

Simon gave a firm nod.

"So we're all leaving," Violet summarized.

"We're all leaving," I confirmed.

I told them my jet was already sitting at the island airport. All we had to do was pack and get to the tarmac. I'd have my flight crew start fueling and prepping the cabin. Everyone murmured their agreement and scattered to pack.