Page 85 of Second Chance

“I never said you were. I didn’t treat you like one either.” I step toward her, but her cheek remains turned away from me. “Spice?”

“I can’t do this,” she mutters more to herself than to me. Her eyes close despite the pressure from my fingers under her chin.

“What is it you can’t do? Is this about guilt? Are you still holding Chris between us?” My anger returns for new reasons, and this gets her attention. Her head snaps up in my direction.

“Don’t bring Chris into this,” she hisses.

“Chris will always be between us. He’s the one who…” I can’t tell her. He’s the one who asked me to leave.

“What?” she barks, as my voice falters. I don’t give in. “Yeah, that’s right. Don’t explain. You’re good at that.” Like lion cat claws, her words scratch deep as if I had a choice. I release her cheeks.

“You want an explanation from me? What about Chris? Did he ever explain things to you? What’s it say in the damn letter he wrote me, Mati?” I know I have the letter, but I don’t have the courage to read it. What if he tells me to stay away from her again?

“I told you I don’t know.”

“But he wrote one to you, too, didn’t he? What’s his say to you?”

She pauses, and I know I’ve pressed too far. Whatever he said to her remains in the sacred vault of marriage privilege, something between them I’m not privy to.

“Never mind, Mati.” I sigh, swiping a hand over my head. “You know, I came here to talk about other things. Not this shit.”

“This shit? Us?”

“There isn’t an us.” The moment the words release, I feel the temperature of the room plummet.

“That’s right. There isn’t.” Her words hurt just as much as the ones I flung at her. I want there to be an us, but there can’t be. I’m going home—California—and I can’t wait to get back there as too many unknowns don’t concern me here. I don’t care about Kip, Calvin, a subdivision, or even a failing farm. I want out.

“I don’t need this right now,” I mutter, crestfallen in the woman I consider my safe haven which isn’t a safe place after all. Turning to strut down her short hall, I ignore the wall where I pressed up against her, slid my fingers deep inside her, and split her open with my tongue.

“That’s right. Run away like you always do.”

I stop—take a millisecond of breath—and turn back to her.

“And what would I have stuck around here for?” The comment catches in my throat because standing before me is the one reason I would have stayed. More importantly, I had hoped to whisk her away from here with me. “I might have run away, Mati, but not from you. I could never outrun you. You’ve chased my heart and my dreams for almost three decades. And I didn’t run, I sprinted because I knew if I didn’t get away from here, I’d—”

“What?” she interjects, her breath drawing deep as her nostrils flare.

I’d steal you for mine. The words crush my heart and fill my dry mouth, but I can’t admit them when she’s looking at me like she wants to skewer me on a stick and roast me over an open pit. Heavy exhales of anger fall between us.

“You know what? It doesn’t matter,” she says, holding up a hand. “You have a lot going on with your mom and Dolores. I don’t want to act like we can just pick up as friends like we were, and it will be okay when you leave again. I don’t want to pretend.”

“Things are different now, Mati. And the other night was certainly more than us being friends. We can stay in touch.” I sigh, letting my fingers slip to her throat. I shrug. “I don’t know…maybe you can come to visit me.” The words fall from my lips without thinking.

“Don’t say things you don’t mean,” she whispers, her eyes casting downward again.

“I do mean them.” Recognizing I spoke with hesitation, it sounds as if I don’t mean what I’ve said, but the second after the suggestion left my mouth, I find I do mean it. I want her to come to California and see me. I want to show her my life, share it with her. “I can show you around LA and take you to the ocean.”

A spark of hope flickers in my chest and the heat of my anger settles into something else. A false smile from her stifles my enthusiasm.

“I can’t take promises from you again, Denton.” She tugs her face from my grasp, and her words claw at my chest.

“I’m not promising anything. I’m merely suggesting a trip, a vacation, a getaway.”

“I can’t,” she says, her head shaking vehemently against the idea.

“Why not?”

“You don’t understand,” she continues, not answering my question, as her head continues to shake even more.

“Explain it to me.” Her facial expression pinches and I brace myself for the strike.

“I think it’s best some things remain left unsaid.”

What the fuck does that mean?