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“Look. At. Me.” I lift my gaze and hate when he sees tears in my eyes.
I want to brush it off. “You said it yourself. I cry over everything.”
He ignores me. “You arenotsomething to pass time with. Do you hear me?”
The lump in my throat is too big, and I can’t speak.
“Do you hear me?” he presses.
I nod, not trusting myself enough to open my mouth.
“That’s not what this is.”
“Isn’t it?” I’m brave enough to ask.
His eyes shut tight. I watch the pulse beat in his neck.
“I’m not supposed to get an after, Claire. It was always only her.”
A heavy tear falls from my eye and onto his hand because I know that too.
But some part of me wants him to have more.
The part that lusts after him wants it to be me.
The part that is falling for him just wants him to have everything he deserves. Even if I’m not in the future I’ve dreamed up for him.
But hearing it is still an agony I haven’t experienced before.
I try to retreat—to curl up and disappear—but he holds me tight, and when his eyes open, I’m pinned to my seat.
“I didn’t account for you.”
My breath escapes me in a wobble, and no matter how hard I try, I can’t get enough oxygen into my greedy lungs. The air in the car is too thick, and I’m only aware of him. I focus on his scent, allowing it to invade every part of me.
Anger mars the features on his face.
Who he’s angry with, I’m not sure, but when he runs a frustrated hand through his hair and leans back, I know it’s with himself.
He turns away, refusing to look at me when he says, “Eight fucking years, Claire. For eight years, I was angry at the world for still turning without her. I got trapped in a memory—too afraid to escape because I thought it meant leaving her behind. But she’s right there every day in my son’s eyes. And the world kept spinning, even on the days I wished it wouldn’t. I was happy to let it pass me by.”
My hand is on him before I can think about it. He doesn’t scour away from my touch, but he doesn’t accept it either. It simply rests on his leg.
“Please don’t let the world pass you by,” I say quietly.
You’re needed on it.
I need you on it.
Jaw tight, he taps his fist against the steering wheel, starts the car, and drives.
With my heart slowly crumbling, I pull my hand away, but his fingers wrap around my wrist to stop it.
“I haven’t wished for the world to stop spinning since the day you walked into my office.”
But it does.
It stops spinning.
