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“What happened to you asking me to stay?” His tone was resigned like he already knew the answer.
“That was before I heard my dad and Jessica talking. And before you put the house on the market for teardown developers.” Now I was the one with the wounded tone, small and soft.
“On the market?” Mouth twisting, Monroe sounded legit confused. “I haven’t listed the house yet. I got a random text yesterday that I’ve yet to respond to.”
“But you’re tempted.” Of that, I was certain, and the way he exhaled didn’t contradict me.
“Knox. You knew all along I was planning to sell.”
“And nothing’s changed,” I said flatly, removing my hand from his grip.
“Everything has. Every last thing.” Monroe took my hand right back. “And I’m trying to catch up over here, figure out what the hell I’m doing with my life.”
“Sorry to be a complication.” If there was an Oscar for pouting, I was surely in the running to win it. I couldn’t seem to dial back my hurt, and pushing it all on Monroe wasn’t fair, but it seemed like the only way out of the jumbled maze of conflicting thoughts and emotions in my brain.
“The last thing I want is for you to be sorry. But I’m not going to beg you to give us a shot either. That’s not fair to either of us. If you don’t want your dad to know, then it has to end.” Monroe was so damn reasonable. A scream gathered in my throat, and I swallowed it as he continued, all measured and adult. “Your relationship with him is too important for me to ask you to risk it.”
“It’s not my relationship I’m worried about. Like I said, he’d be livid, but not at me, despite it being my fault—”
“Hey now.” Giving up on trying to hold my hand, Monroe gently rubbed my shoulder. “No fault. Neither of us is to blame.”
“But that’s what I’m trying to say. Everyone will place blame, and they’ll try to pin it on you because you’re the older one. Which shouldn’t matter, but apparently, it does.”
“It does.” Monroe gave me a level look. “What am I supposed to say? Of course, it matters. It’s always mattered, and if anything, it matters more now that real feelings and futures are involved. I’m eighteen years older than you. I can’t wish that away, no matter how much I love you. When you’re thirty-two, I’ll be fifty. You’ll be in the prime of your life.”
“And so will you.” I groaned dramatically, flopping back on the bed. “I don’t care about the math. I fucking hate that everyone else will have opinions though. Probably more so here than in the Bay, which I hate even more because that means you were right there too.”
“Mixed-age couples are more common there, yeah.” Shaking his head, Monroe looked like he was debating joining my sprawl. His voice turned wearier. “But I’m not going to ask you to leave, Knox.”
“But—”
“I know I asked that. But I saw you with the girls last night. I hear you when you talk about Frank and Leon’s business. I feel it when you wax poetic about the town.” Pain mingled with certainty in his tone and eyes both. The lines around those gorgeous, expressive eyes I treasured were deeper and his mouth sagged. “You do. This is your home. It’s where you belong.”
“And you don’t.” I had to work to keep my voice from cracking.
“No.”
“Damn it, Monroe.” There it was, the break in my control. “Disagree with me.”
“How am I supposed to?” Monroe threw up his hands. “Knox, you don’t even want to tell your dad about the career you truly want. Your reluctance is not only about his reaction to me. You don’t want to let him down, and I’m not going to come between the two of you.”
I made a low, pained noise because I couldn’t argue, and that made me even more upset and confused, mainly at myself, not him.
“You want me to fight for us, but you’ve already decided not to. I can’t do this on my own. You want me to stay and keep our relationship hidden? I can’t do that either.”
“I know.” I had to whisper past the burning in my throat. Tears were perilously close. I couldn’t ask him to hide indefinitely. “Fuck. I hate this.”
I launched myself off the bed, searching for clothes, most of which were already living in this room. Like me. I lived here too. It wasn’t Monroe’s room. It was ours, and I couldn’t be in it a second longer.
“Where are you going?” Monroe asked as I yanked on pants and a shirt suitable for painting.
“Work. Not like I can sleep. And those cabinets won’t paint themselves.”
“Okay.” Monroe nodded, which cut far deeper than if he’d tried to force me to stay and talk. He was right. Again. I was desperate for him to fight for us, to show commitment to a future, yet I couldn’t do the same. I wanted him to cling to me at the same time that I was trying to do the right thing and cast him free. Fuck. What a mess.
