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Why would he persist after three months if he didn’t mean it?
In my purse, my phone buzzes. Speak of the devil… It’s Clint.
Good morning, sweetheart. I miss you. It’s a beautiful day, but it would be even better if you were here. It would be perfect if you wanted to talk.
I’m tempted to reply…but I don’t. What I need to say should be said in person.
Hey, good news. I got a message from Ash last night. He and Samantha are engaged! Happy for them… He’s managing the bar now but that’s temporary. Sam finishes her degree in finance in May and will be looking for an entry-level position. The wedding is in June in Maui, and I’m best man! If you’d like come, I would love to see you. Because I love you. Still. That’s not going to change.
There’s no stopping the way my heart melts.
Right after I found out he lied and used me for revenge, I wanted to hate him. For a few days, maybe I even did. But it didn’t last. He’s made staying mad impossible. Now, I look forward to his daily texts. He doesn’t know, of course. I’ve waited to see if his feelings were more absolution than lifetime devotion. But he hasn’t wavered one bit since our separation.
So, it’s time for me to finally figure out if we have any hope of a future. Because as much as I’d like to say I’ve fallen out of love, I haven’t.
The phone in my hand buzzes again as I head slowly up the walkway, toward the door.
What are you up to? I’m still at home in LA, working through what my next business venture will be. I’ve got some ideas… I wish we could talk about them. You might be surprised. I know you’re probably still angry—and with good reason. But I won’t stop texting you unless you tell me to. Maybe I won’t even stop then. It’s the only way I have to convince you that I’m beyond in love with you and want to spend my life with you. I want to marry you.
He says that almost every day, more lately than when he first started texting. I’m finding it harder and harder not to believe him. I’ve questioned whether that makes me crazy. Maybe I should be holding a grudge. That might have been satisfying, at least for a while. But I’ve realized a few things through all of this. First, not forgiving is what started this mayhem. Second, the more I let distrust and negativity into my life, the more I risk becoming like Barclay.
That’s something I never, ever want.
For the first time since our one-sided correspondence, I raise my trembling fingers to my phone and tap out a reply.
Answer your door.
As soon as the message is delivered, I shove the phone back in my bag and ring the bell.
Seconds later, footsteps pound through the house. The door wrenches open, and Clint stands there, tall and shocked and looking so good in jeans and a T-shirt, he makes me as weak-kneed as the first time I saw him.
I drag in a breath and brace myself. “Hi.”
“You’re here. Oh, my god. You’re here! Come in.”
When he lurches back, I step over the threshold and into his foyer, nervously clutching my purse. He leads me into the living room beyond. It’s expansive, lined with bookcases, framed by a large sectional, comfy chairs, and a marble fireplace that’s a statement all its own. This place is nice, but it doesn’t look like him.
“Thanks. Did your mother decorate the house?”
He nods. “A few years before she passed, yes. Did you want to sit?”
I can tell he’s nervous. Because he doesn’t want to spoil the opportunity to convince me of his feelings…or is he worried I’m here to call his bluff?
“Thanks.” As I perch on the edge of the sectional, he sits on the massive coffee table right in front of me.
He’s mere feet away. My heart pounds. I wasn’t sure if or when I’d ever be close to this man again…and now I can’t think about anything else.
“I’m sorry.” I assume he’s apologizing to me again for what happened in Maui, but he takes my hands instead. “I can’t not touch you. It’s been so long. I need to be sure you’re real.”
When he squeezes my fingers, he squeezes my heart, too. I clutch him in return. It feels so good to touch him again. He’s like welcoming warmth after three long months of emotional winter.
“What brings you here? Not that I’m not thrilled to see you. Not that I want you to ever leave,” he rushes to assure me, scooting even closer. “But you haven’t spoken to me since the funeral and…”
He’s been trying not to give up. I see that on his face.
We have to figure out how—or if—we can put the past behind us. But first things first.
