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When he turns back to me his eyes are red. There’s no tears on his face, but I’ve never seen him so close. I’ve never seen the weight around his neck as clearly as I do now.
“I’m not going to say something dumb and false to push you away,” he says, swallowing. “But I’m telling you as honestly as I can, I can’t do this with you. I’m sorry.”
I’m shattering into a billion jagged pieces. The floor tilts beneath my feet as fresh tears prick the backs of my eyes. I knew this is how it would end, but it still hurts as if he’s taken a shotgun to my heart.
“I understand.” I stick my hand into my pocket, where I’ve stashed his mother’s ring. The stone glints in the light, as if mocking me for even having a glimmer of hope that we might make it. “I’m really sorry this didn’t work out.”
“Me, too.”
I place the ring on the table beside his hospital bed and turn to head out of the room. There’s a nurse waiting and I have no idea how much she heard, but I duck my head and keep on walking. Inside, I’m falling apart.
No matter how illogical it is, I know exactly how I feel. I love Owen and I wanted this to work so badly it makes me crazy. But I won’t pursue someone who can’t take a chance on me.
I can’t do that to myself.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Owen
BYTHETIMEthe hospital lets me out, I’m feeling like an animal who’s finally been released into the wild. A still-hurting, probably-going-to-get-feasted-on-by-a-lion animal, but I am free, nonetheless.
I’m on antibiotics and painkillers and moving at a snail’s pace up the driveway to my grandmother’s house. She’s lived in the same house since before I was born. It’s a squat place with thick canvas blinds that protect against Melbourne’s dry, hot summers. The garden is small but neat, with roses and begonias and agapanthus. When I was a kid, she made me help with the weeds, teaching me all the flower names and how to care for them. It was a lost cause, since I’ve never owned a plant.
I knock on the security screen, rattling it against the front door. There’s the sound of the television inside—a game show, judging by the cheering. A second later, the door swings open.
“I don’t want whatever you’re selling,” she says, her voice as husky and deep as I remember. I hadn’t realised it until now, but God, I’ve missed it. A cheeky smile tugs at her lips. “What’s the secret password?”
“Lamington.” It was my favourite sweet as a kid—a fluffy square of sponge dipped in chocolate and rolled in coconut. “It hasn’t changed, right?”
“No.” Her smile falters a bit when she sees I’m moving slowly, and when she reaches up to hug me it’s with far less vigor than I remember. I’d called her this morning to let her know I was coming by, and to warn her that I wouldn’t be in great shape. “Does it hurt?”
“Yeah. But they’ve dosed me up on meds.”
She steps back and holds the door, her small frame wrapped in a chunky sweater and wool skirt to ward off the chill. The house is toasty and smells like home. I know she’s been baking all morning; the evidence lingers in the air with the scent of coconut and sugar.
She leads me through to the kitchen, which hasn’t changed a bit. “It was nice to bake something knowing you were coming over. I don’t do it much anymore. It’s not the same when it’s just for me.”
I don’t know whether she means because I left or because my grandfather died. Probably both. I had no illusions of not feeling like a piece of shit today, but we certainly came to that point quicker than I’d anticipated.
“You want a coffee?” She heads straight to the kettle, almost as if it were a rhetorical question. Within minutes, I’ve got a steaming mug in front of me and a perfectly square lamington.
When I take a bite, I send pieces of shredded coconut skittering all over my plate. “So...”
“So.” My grandmother isn’t going to give me an inch.
“I’m sorry I haven’t called.”
Her eyes are a little cloudy these days, but she has the kind of stare that could reduce a grown man to a snivelling mess. “You should be.”
“How have you been?” I feel like a dumbass, trading questions like one might with an acquaintance. “I’ve missed you.”
Her expression softens. “I’ve missed you, too.”
“Are you doing okay?”
“It’s been hard, but I keep going. It’s what your grandfather would have wanted.” She bobs her head and her eyes suddenly well. “I think about him every day.”
In contrast, I’ve actively tried to suppress my memories of the strong man who stood with his arm around my shoulders as we buried my parents and brother. He and my grandmother were the stuff of relationships goals—they’d battled hard times, struggled with money when my mother was a kid, and were so utterly and deeply in love until the day he passed away.
