Page 117 of The Story Between Us

Not in the tentative, questioning way of the night before. In the bone-deep, certain way that changed everything. She was lying there in the morning light, paint still visible on her fingertips—blue and gold from the mural, from Emma’s dream—and he loved her more than he’d loved anything in three years.

He loved her, and she was leaving in two days.

He loved her, and she’d taken up so much room in his heart, his house, his life.

He loved her, and when she left, it was going to eviscerate him.

And that only added to the fuel inside.

She stirred. Her eyes fluttered open—confused at first, then focusing on the dogs, then on him standing in the doorway like a ghost, like an intruder, like the man who was about to ruin everything.

“Nate?” Her voice was sleep rough, disoriented. “What—what time is it?”

His words emerged without his say, just rushing out. “You had the notebook.”

The confusion on her face shifted. Became something else. Understanding. Then fear? “I was going to tell you⁠—”

“When?” He heard his own voice, cold and flat, and some distant part of him was screaming Stop, don’t do this, but he couldn’t stop. The wall was going up, and he couldn’t stop it. “After the dedication? After everyone in town saw what you did with my sister’s dreams?”

She was sitting up now, pushing hair out of her face, her eyes bright with something that might have been tears. “I found it in her room. And I just…I don’t know. Hazel showed me what Emma had planned, and it was so beautiful, Nate. So perfect. I just wanted to finish it for her. For you.”

“You should have asked me.”

“I know. I know I should have. But you were so focused on the book and the deadline, and I didn’t want to add more pressure⁠—”

“So you made decisions about my sister’s legacy without me.” The words came out sharp. Cutting. “You kept secrets. You watched me search for that notebook. I scoured that room, Livvie. I searched and searched and touched her things and breathed in the last of her scent, looking for something you already had.”

Her face crumpled. “I was trying to help.”

“You helped too much.”

His words landed on her, and she flinched, her shoulders curving inward, and something in her eyes went dark.

He’d hurt her.

The realization should have stopped him. Should have made him cross the room, take her in his arms, apologize.

Instead, “Huck. Finn. Come.”

The dogs looked at him. Looked at Livvie. For a terrible moment, he thought they might refuse.

Then Huck stood. Finn jumped down from the bed a moment later. They padded to his side, tails low, confused by the tension they couldn’t understand.

“Nate—” Her voice broke. “Please. Can we just talk about this?”

He made himself look at her. Made himself see the tears on her cheeks, the devastation in her eyes, the way she was clutching the blanket like it was the only thing holding her together.

He loved her. He loved her so much it was destroying him.

That was the problem.

He couldn’t let himself be destroyed again. “I have a book to finish,” he said. “I think you should stay here today.”

He turned. Walked down the hallway. Through the living room. Out the door.

The morning light was still golden. The birds were still singing.

He took off running, his dogs at his heels, something broken in his chest that he didn’t know how to fix.