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I chew my lip between my teeth, feeling him slip away with every second that passes in silence.
“I told you before, you won’t break me. I’m not some fragile doll. But if this is how you want to end things with us—whateverweare—then have the balls big enough to talk to me. Don’t do it through Nora.” I turn away to close the suitcase. “But I guess you don’t have to. You’ve made sure I’ll be out of your life in every way possible.”
He grabs my elbow, roughly yanking me around. “Do you think I want to see you walk out that door? Because I’ll fucking die inside when you do. I don’t want to think of you somewhere else for almost a year. I can’t look at you because I still see you lifeless in my arms. I hear you struggling for breath. I see the look in your eyes when you screamed for some fucking control. I still feel your life draining as I held you. I couldn’t protect you from him, and it’s slowly eating me up.” He turns away. Shoulders vibrating, he leans over, presses his hands to his thighs, and roars, “Fuck.”
A sob escapes. I hold my hand over my mouth to stifle it.
“I’m sorry,” I cry.
His body gives up, and he crouches, head in his hands. He’s breaking right here in this room.
“Because I know it’s not the first time you held someone in your arms like that.” Sitting on the bed so I’m between his legs, I tip his head back. “Look at me, please. I can’t deal with you not looking at me.”
Eyes swimming when they connect, I’m not sure what he sees in mine, but I see his ghosts. We’re both more haunted than we were, and I’m afraid he can’t get past seeing someone else. I’m hurting him.
“You can’t protect me from the world.”
He takes my hand and presses a kiss to my palm. “I’d lock you in this house if I could. I’m too selfish with you, Claire.”
Tentatively, he reaches out.
Closer and closer.
He takes my face in his hands, and with his touch, my dams burst.
I know I’m not dead because my heart still beats when he’s around.
He makes me feel.
On our first night together, I asked him to help me feel anything but pain. But now, he makes me feel with just the sight of him.
How am I going to get through this without him?
I don’t want to lie in a bed and not feel him in it. I don’t want to live a day and not hear his voice. I want to see the warmth in his eyes when he looks at his son.
But I don’t want to doubt.
And I do—every time he looks at me.
I screamed to get my voice back, and I don’t want to leave here not knowing. Worst of all, I don’t want to leave without opening my mouth and telling him.
I stand away from his hold. He follows, boring a hole through me with his stare.
“Claire?” Eyes watering, he’s blurry when I look up. He exhales. “I know.”
I open my mouth, the words tickling the tip of my tongue, but I close it again, hating myself for not just asking.
“Say it,” he prompts, reading me like he always does.
I need to see his reaction. I need to know the truth. So, with a shaky breath, I meet his gaze, knowing my words can break us beyond repair.
“Do you see her when you look at me?”
It takes a second, just a flash of confusion before the reality of what I’m asking hits and knocks the air from his lungs. With wide eyes, he takes a step forward but wavers and remains planted on the floor.
“Jesus Christ, Claire.” He runs a hand over the stubble on his face.
I need to know.
