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I breezed right past as I searched for him upstairs, thinking he’d retreated as far from me as he could get. But here he is, making breakfast.
My brows bunch together as I watch him meticulously arrange orange slices on the plate. He doesn’t know I’m here, watching.
“Ro?”
He jolts, his spine snapping straight. His eyes are wide, but when realizes it’s just me, he relaxes, a cocky grin spreading across his face.
“Good morning, beautiful,” he murmurs. “I was just bringing you breakfast in—”
“Why’d you leave?” The words come out harsher than I’d intended, but I can’t take them back. So I straighten my shoulders, my chin lifting.
His brows tighten as he flicks his eyes between mine.
“I didn’t leave,” he says slowly.
“You weren’t there when I woke up,” I whisper, hating how obvious my fear is. “You left.”
“I just came to make you breakfast.” He glances at the food, then back at me. “I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”
Despite what he said, my apparent abandonment issues are in full swing this morning, so his words mean absolutely nothing to me. I fold my arms over my chest, glaring at him.
“I didn’t think you’d leave four years ago, and you did. How was I supposed to know you wouldn’t now?”
His head rears back like I slapped him, his mouth opening and closing.
“What are you talking about?” he asks, exasperated. “I didn’t leave.”
“Ro—”
“Four years ago, yeah, I did. But I didn’t have a choice. And you didn’t exactly come, either.”
“What?” My face scrunches in a mix of anger and confusion. “Yes, I did.”
“No,” he scoffs. “I waited all night for you, and you never came.”
“Ro.”
“No,” he says again, shaking his head. “We’re not doing this right now.”
“Yeah. I think we are.” I glare at him.
Years. It’s been years and we’ve avoided having this conversation. We’ve danced around it, behind it, ignored it. We’ve been angry and hurt, sad and devastated. It’s broken both of us. But we’ve never talked about it.
That night.
He scrubs his hands roughly over his face, letting out an annoyed breath before glowering back at me. “I waited and you never came. You can’t blame me for everything when you had a hand in it. You chose to stay, and I respected your choice.”
“What?” I ask again, my voice rising. “I never chose anything. You left. And when I chased you, you already had some girl warming your bed.”
He stares at me, his face blank. “What the fuck are you talking about?” he grits out. “A girl? You chased me?”
“In your dorm room,” I mutter, my heart squeezing at the memory. “I went there looking for you. When I knocked, a girl answered. She was wearing one of your varsity shirts, and that’s it. You moved on immediately.”
“I didn’t even go to college.”
It’s my turn to stare at him. “Yes, you did. You had a scholarship—”
“I dropped out before school even started,” he says, shaking his head and my stomach drops. “I never went. I never lived there. Whoever you saw, I didn’t fuck. I don’t even know who it was.”
