Page 44 of Neap & Spring

I deserve that. I know I deserve that.

But his words still hurt. There is a pain radiating through my chest, spreading like cracks in ice.

We sit in silence. The coffee is definitely cold now. I can feel the chill of it through the ceramic when I pick up my mug again, just to have something to hold. The kitchen is so quiet I can hear the clock on the wall ticking. Each second ticking loudly in the silence.

I should say something. Anything. I should try to explain and apologize. I should tell him the truth.

But I don’t know how.

Instead, without thinking, I lean forward and put my hand on his knee.

Just a light touch. A tiny gesture to try to make him see how sad I am about the situation we are in. I lay my palm flat against his leg, feeling the warmth of him through the fabric of his pants.

I’m here. I’m sorry. I wish I could fix this.

His whole body goes still before he looks down at my hand like it’s a foreign object. He stares at it intently, and I can see his chest stop moving, like he’s holding his breath.

And then, slowly, deliberately, he shifts in his chair and pulls his leg back.

My hand falls to my lap and meets empty air where his warmth was.

The rejection is small, but it strikes way deeper than I have any right to feel hurt by. My fingers curl into my palm, trying to hold onto the ghost of the contact.

“Your turn.”

My breathing stutters to a stop. “What?”

“Why did you stop cooking?” He’s looking directly at me now, and I can see all the questions that are threatening to explode out of him. “Why did you leave and become a consultant instead of a chef? Why did you give up the thing you were better at than anyone I’ve ever met?”

I open my mouth. My jaw works, but no sound comes out.

“And why —” His voice hardens, trying to hide the hurt underneath all that anger. “Why did you give up on me?”

The kitchen is too small and too bright all of a sudden. The walls are closing in. I can feel them pressing against my shoulders.

“Please don’t.” I whisper so quietly I wonder if he even hears it.

“I just told you everything.” He leans forward, elbows on his knees, and his eyes are intense and cold. “I told you about Sarah. And the engagement. I told you how she stole from me and left me with nothing. I told you things I haven’t told anyone outside my family.”

He’s right. He opened himself up completely and laid everything bare.

And now he’s asking me to do the same.

But I can’t.

I can’t do it.

“So tell me.” There’s a quiet desperation in his voice that goes straight through me. “Tell me why you left. Why did you disappear? Why did you cut me out of your life like I didn’t matter.”

“You did matter,” I say quickly, my voice cracking with the threat of unshed tears. “You — Cal, you mattered so much. You were —”

Everything. He was everything.

But I can’t say that.

“Then why!?” I can hear the plea underneath his demand. “Why did you leave!?”

“It’s complicated,” I rasp out, and the words sound hollow even to me.