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‘You may see it that way.’
‘Youshould see it that way,’ I throw at him, panic clambering up my throat as my feelings for him rise to the surface and terrify the hell out of me. ‘If you want something serious, you should find someone your own age.’
‘Now who’s treating who like a child?’
I’m struck dumb. So many emotions at war inside that I can’t see straight, let alone think.
‘In case you haven’t noticed, you don’t get to choose who you fall in love with. I can’t choose to stop loving you, just like I didn’t choose to fall in love with you; it just happened.’
My heart pulses, my chest squeezing around it tight. ‘Stop saying that.’
‘What, that I love you?’
I close my ears to it, my eyes to him. ‘You can get married, Valentine. Have children. Hell, you can produce enough offspring to make your own football team and I can’t do that any more.’
‘Now who’s talking about making it serious? I’m talking about committing to this relationship. I’m not talking about marriage and kids.’
‘But you will do, one day.’
‘I don’t know. Maybe.’
‘But don’t you see? That option doesn’t exist with me.’
He shrugs. ‘We could adopt, if it came to it, if we wanted children. There are always options.’
Tears fill my eyes anew, the future he paints so beautiful that for a split-second I lose myself in it. But it’s a fantasy. Too good to be true. And I can’t let that kind of hope in; I can’t give him that hope either. We don’t belong together. We’re too different; the age gap is too much. And the longer we sit here debating it, the more it hurts.
‘You’re right; we can’t do this any more.’ I turn away, go to open the door and he reaches over to stop me, his hand gentle on my arm.
‘Wait.’
I look back at him, his silent form, praying that he will release me and I can just leave, get in my house and cry until the pain of this leaves me.
‘Tell me you don’t have feelings for me too, and I’ll let it go.’
My laugh is choked. ‘You know I have feelings for you; it’s because I care that I’m letting you go.’
‘Don’t you think I should be the one to decide that?’
‘Please, Valentine, don’t do this.’
‘Tell me you don’t love me.’
I drag in a breath, but I can’t look him in the eye.
‘I don’t love you.’
Every syllable strikes like a physical blow to the chest. I can’t love him. I can’t.
I pull away from his hand and shove open the door, close it and walk away. I don’t run. Running would tell him that this hurts. Running would betray my heart and belie my words.
Because I do love him.
I love him so much that I’m a quivering wreck inside, my fingers trembling as I locate my keys inside my handbag and unlock my door. I don’t look back. I walk straight in and close the door behind me, breathe in the familiar scent of home, but it does nothing for me. Because it doesn’t smell of him.
I hear his car pull away and sink back against my front door, my eyes squeezing shut as the tears roll down my face.
What have I done?
