Page 70 of The Has-Been

She goes still. I realize I don’t have the privilege to promise her anything, not anymore. I lost her trust. I lost a lot of people’s trust. I lost my future—my fight. I lost to the voices in my head that whispered to me.

Silence.

That was all I really wanted.

But now, now I want noise. Her laughter. Her voice. Aubrey singing loudly to my record player.

I clear my throat, asking from where I’m kneeling before her. “I’ll stay if that’s what you want?”

She nods. Just once.

Enough for me to catch a breath I didn’t know I was holding.

She forces a smile, and my chest sinks with relief at the sight. Turning around, I offer her some privacy to get undressed.

It’s not like I haven’t seen every inch of her, that I don’t have that image burned into my memory—that I don’t think of her every time I grip myself late at night.

But I know how vulnerable she is right now, how unprotected she likely feels—that’s exposing enough without her stripping down naked.

When the water sloshes, I risk a glance over my shoulder—just enough to make sure she’s decent. My eyes find hers. I find her sitting in the water, knees pressed to her chest, covering herself.

She should know she doesn’t need to hide from me.

I appreciate every version of her. The good ones, the broken ones—each of them are worthy of admiration.

“It’s alright,” I murmur as I move to the bath’s ledge, rubbing my hands over her bare shoulders, “It’s all better now.”

My words feel like a lie.

Because is it all better? I still don’t know what happened. I still don’t understand what I’m fighting against. I still don’t know what she needs in order to forgive me.

I close my eyes, looking away.

After a while, she begins to tense under my touch, and it should break my heart. But it doesn’t.

Because I know that means she’s coming back to me.

Back to this version of Aubrey Vaughn, who does not want me.

The Aubrey who believes I regret every moment I’ve ever spent with her.

When, truly, it is the exact opposite.

But for tonight, I’m okay with that; I can live with it. I’ll be whatever version of myself she needs me to be.

“Liam—” she calls at last.

My fingers still stroke her, brushing them over her wet skin, trailing from her neck to down her back. I whisper, “Yeah?”

“I’m sorry,” she murmurs so softly.

I question for a second if that’s what she said at all.

My fingers stop circling over her skin.

“Why on earth are you sorry?” I ask, tilting my head at her.

“So many things,” she chokes, and I’m worried she’s going to start crying again.