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Is she crying because she feels guilty for leaving me? Is she crying because her heart aches just as much as mine does? Or is she crying because she feels awkward and doesn’t want to deal with me at all?
I don’t understand, and her shutting me out has made me feel terrible.
Shit!
Needing to put some space between us, I take a step back from the doorway and shove my hands in my front pockets. I don’t trust them enough to not reach for her, and there’s a good possibility if I touch her, I might never let go. Looking at the ground, I suck in another deep breath and then allow my eyes to drift up the length of her.
I wasn’t going to—take her in with my eyes, that is—but I can’t help it.
I was only going to focus on her face, give her the gift, and leave. Looking at her affects me. It affects every nerve, every cell, and every atom in me. Can’t she see what she does to me? I feel like a starved man that can only be nourished by her, and two weeks is a long time to go without food.
She looks like my Ava, and my heart breaks. I want this girl, and I want her for forever.
Her hair is super curly, her lips are glossy, she’s wearing an off-the-shoulder pink sweater, skinny jeans, and her toenails are painted bright red.
Damn, she is so beautiful.
On top of all of that, she’s baked something. She looks like home and smells like home, but yet she’s not my home. My broken heart sinks to my stomach and is immediately consumed by something so much deeper than despair.
“Avery . . .” my voice is hoarse and my words trail off. It’s not lost on her that I used her given name, and not our nickname, as her eyebrows rise slightly.
I have so much I want to say to her and so many questions to ask. I thought I knew how this conversation was going to go down, but now that I’m here standing in front of her, my mind is racing and it won’t stop long enough to make a coherent thought.
“At any point—since I’ve known you—have I been unkind to you?”
Her eyes widen, she looks away from me, and swallows. “No,” she whispers.
“Have I ever lied to you?” I ask. I need her to tell me something—anything—as to why she left.
She tilts her head, a shadow crosses over her face, and she pauses, contemplating her answer. “You lied about your name and who you are.”
That can’t be what she was thinking, and that’s not fair. My eyes narrow and a streak of frustration pulses through me. My hands fist in my pockets.
“No, I didn’t.” I need a few seconds to calm my emotions, and her eyes on me are making it worse. I love her eyes. “The two people who mean the most to me in the whole world, my grandfather and Clay, both call me Ash. That’s my name. I never led you to believe it was something different. And we both agreed to set our professional lives to the side.”
I want to point out that it was actually her who lied about her name, but that won’t do us any good. I’m not here to get into a pissing match with her; I’m here to give her the gift and try and get some answers.
She doesn’t say anything, she really can’t. In all honesty, we’ve moved past the name thing, so I’m not sure why she brought it up.
“Why won’t you text me back?”
The shadow returns and her features darken. Whoa, I didn’t think my texting her would make her angry. With every one that I’ve sent, I’ve spent an unhealthy amount of time staring at my phone just hoping she would respond.
Her eyes lock onto mine, blue to blue, and I hold my breath waiting to hear her response.
“What about Juliet?” she asks, punctuating the syllables of her name.
Juliet!
Is this the reason for all of the miscommunication and the silent treatment? No, it can’t be. Juliet is . . . Juliet. Anyone who knows the band, knows her. She’s been with us step-by-step since the very beginning, and there’s no secret to our relationship. Her mentioning Juliet is just another diversion to avoid telling me what the real problem is.
“What about her?” I ask, suddenly angry.
She sees the shift in my mood and she pales. I’m confused. What’s happening here?
“You know what? It doesn’t even matter,” she says with a resigned tone, dropping her gaze.
What?
