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I always assumed he shunned following in his father’s footsteps because he hates how the political system in the United States works, something he’s told me repeatedly.
Maybe it’s bigger than that.
Maybe it’s because he saw how it destroyed his mother.
Now I’m asking him to put himself in the same position. Asking him to risk it all for me when I’m not even sure I love him. At least not like I should.
“I won’t ask you to do that. Just like I know you wouldn’t ask me to losemysoul. And the people of this countryaremy heart and soul. It just took me a few years to finally realize that.”
His body deflates, head bowed as he exhales a deep, sorrowful sigh. The moment stretches painfully until he slowly lifts his eyes to meet mine.
“Where does this leave us?”
“At an impossible impasse,” I say through the tightness building in my throat.
Over the past several years, he’s become such a huge part of my life. Walking away from him feels like I’m walking away from part of myself.
But it’s part of myself Ineedto walk away from. The woman I was in Paris isn’t who I really am.
The woman Tristan fell in love with in Paris isn’t who I really am.
“Is this how it ends?” His voice cracks with his question, tears rimming his eyes.
“We both want two different things. We bothneedtwo different things. And those things are in direct conflict.”
He nods, biting on his lower lip to stop his chin from quivering. “I just…” His chestnut eyes find mine, and I can see the desperation in them. “I thought you were the one,” he chokes out.
My vision blurs with my tears, chest constricting. “Maybe I was the right one, but at the wrong time.”
He squeezes his eyes shut, trying to swallow down the despair engulfing him. When he pulls me into his embrace one last time, it takes everything I have to breathe through the boulder in my throat. My feelings may not amount to the soul-fulfilling love I once shared with Creed, but I still care deeply for Tristan.
Still hate hurting him like this.
“You will always be the right one for me.” He presses a soft kiss to my forehead, lingering there long enough to make me wonder if he’s about to change his mind.
Then he releases me and steps back. “Goodbye, Esme.”
PartThree
Absolution
“It is the confession, not the priest,
that gives us absolution.”
~ Oscar Wilde
ChapterThirty-Four
Creed
Polite conversationand subtle jazz music surrounds me as I stand in the middle of an art gallery in the SoHo section of New York. Every few seconds, I glance toward the door. I tell myself it’s part of the job.
But that’s not entirely true, not when the door’s being watched by two of my best guys, ensuring no one suspicious enters this space.
Instead, I keep looking at the door for another reason altogether.
Because I know Esme will walk through it at any minute.
