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“Just, it kind of felt like maybe you were getting at…I don’t know. Maybe I’m insane, but I feel like the attraction is still there. For me it is, anyway. You looked hot last night. Like, really hot.”

I can’t deny that I find him attractive too, but I just can’t go there. I’m freshly divorced—I’m supposed to be figuring out who I am and what I want, now that I’m on my own.

“I need the bathroom.” The room tilts sideways as I jump to my feet.

“I didn’t mean it.” Shame is written across his pale face. “What I said, about your marriage. I…I’m sorry.” He clamps his lips shut into a tight line, eyes darting to my face and quickly away.

I don’t stop, darting into the bathroom and snicking the door shut. I press my back into the cool wood and slide down until I can’t sink any farther.

Chapter Twenty

Sunday

As soon as the bathroom door shuts, a wave of desperation hits me. My head whips to the side, looking at the cabinet that houses an old cardboard shoebox. Anxiety and guilt bloom in my gut. Is now the right time? Is it ever going to be the right time? Or is not doing this the very thing that’s keeping him holding me at arm’s length?

Before I can change my mind, I pad over to the cabinet quickly, like if I stop I’m going to be sucked into the floorboards. My hands quiver as I pick up the battered cardboard box and set it on the kitchen island. I don’t need to open it; I know the contents by heart. Every piece, the day it was put in there, and the memory it’s tied to.

And every single one of them has one thing in common.

Bellamy.

I don’t know what I’m going to do if he runs away again—climb up his fire escape again and go full Edward Cullen, probably.

I hear the toilet flush, anxiety spiking in my belly when the door opens and Bellamy steps out, a cloud of clean soapy scent filtering through the air. His eyes look brighter and clearer than they did earlier. He still looks ridiculously cute swamped in my tee, the hem sitting dangerously mid-thigh.

The breath that’s bunched up inside of me works its way loose, the words tumbling out with it. “Can we talk?”

You dumb fucking idiot. Say the most triggering shit on the planet, why don’t you?

“I just want to show you something,” I add quickly, feeling like I’m going to puke or shit myself, or some secret third combination that scientists haven’t discovered yet.

He eyes me warily. Maybe this was a stupid idea; I’m a coward when it comes to expressing my feelings. But I need to do it now, while I have the balls for it.

I gesture for him to take a seat at a bar stool opposite me while I stare at the flecks in the terrazzo countertop.

“Okay. Go ahead,” he says bluntly, clearly preparing for the worst.

“I’m sorry,” I begin, drawing patterns on the counter with my fingers. “I’m sorry for the way I treated you back then. It was…it was nasty, and I should have…I should have handled it better. I thought I wanted something different, you know? I was beyond stupid, Bels. I honestly thought that growing up was something I had to do without you.”

I pause to catch my breath, but he remains silent. I flick my gaze up to his face, but he’s mostly expressionless save for a slight parting of his lips.

“I can’t… There are no words to tell you how sorry I am.” Now that the words have started coming, they just won’t stop. Every sentence knocks another one out of me, dominoes falling out of my mouth.

“And please don’t think for a second that I was okay with it. Trust me when I say the asshole who broke up with you back then paid his price, because it hurt like a fucking bitch when I saw that engagement ring on your finger. I mean it when I say I never got over you, Bellamy. Pathetic as that is, it’s the truth.”

I slide the box in front of him and tap the lid. “This is us.”

“What?” Bellamy asks, eyes widening. He leans forward, bracing his elbows on the counter and steepling his hands. His expression is pinched, hard to get a read on.

In a fit of bravery, or maybe stupidity, I round the island to stand at the corner closest to him. I can’t back out now, so I flip the lid and pull out the first item: one of those stupid photobooth strips. The first photo is of us smiling. In the second, we’re pulling faces, sticking out our tongues and crossing our eyes. There’s also one of me squeezing his cheeks as he pouts, and of me tipping his head back and kissing under his jaw.

A soft gasp escapes his mouth. “You kept those?”

I don’t answer, pulling out the next item.

“This is the menu from our first dinner date as boyfriends. You had veggie moussaka,” I say, my chest tightening. It was the first day he wore makeup, and he was so nervous about it. But he looked fucking stunning.

“This is the scorecard from that Halloween mini-golf we went to for my twentieth birthday. You won, but only because I let you.” That earns a snort of indignation.