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“You regret me?” I can barely stomach the words as they find their way out.
Her head shakes, but she won’t look at me, her gaze locked on her bare feet.
“Look at me,” I demand.
She won’t.
“Look at me!” I yell.
She finally lifts her head, tears track her cheeks.
“You regret me?”
“I don’t know!” she cries. “I don’t know,” she whispers again softly.
Plopping my ass on the bed, I drop my head into my hands. “Wow.”
“I should go.”
A breath of silence.
“Home,” she clarifies.
I look up at her. “This is your home.”
Lips pinched together, she moves her head from side to side. “No. It’s not. Not anymore.”
“Stay,” I plead.
“I can’t.”
“Can’t or won’t?”
“Both.”
Retrieving her clothes, her soft sniffles follow her around my room. “My parents' marriage was a joke. It was built on lies and hurt and betrayal. I vowed I’d never be like that.”
I cannot believe she’s forcing a connection between what we shared and what her parents were. They were full of hate and spite. We were consumed by love, by the affection we hold for one another. How can she not see that?
“People make mistakes. We made a mistake. It doesn’t mean we should punish ourselves by not letting ourselves have what we want.”
She sighs, a condescending sound that slices into me. “We’re teenagers, Brooks. I can’t run away, and neither can you. This . . .” She gestures back and forth between us. “It doesn’t work right now.”
Itdoesn’t work.
Wedon’t work.
“And later?”
A shrug. That’s all she gives me. A dismissive lift of her shoulders when our hearts are bleeding all over the floor.
15
HENLEY
The flightback to London was shit.
Scratch that, it was fucking torturous.
