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“Stop.”
“Stop what?”
“Stop pretending.”
“I’m not. I’m not mad at you,” he says.
“No, you’re disappointed, and that’s worse.”
“If I’m disappointed, it’s my own fault,” he responds. “I knew what I was getting into.”
“I-I’m sorry. If I had known this would happen—”
“Would you have done anything differently?”
This last month has been amazing. Almost perfect. Until today.
“No.”
“Do you regret anything that happened between us?”
“God, no.” My response is instantaneous.
His lips quirk into a half smile that is equally sad. “Me neither. But as much as I love you, I need to let you go.”
“Let me go?”
“You’re a free woman. So, if you and Fucker get back together in Ireland, you don’t have to worry about it.”
“But—”
“Good luck in Ireland, Mia.”
“Garrett—”
“I’ll have my stuff moved out by this weekend.”
“Wait. Stop.” I shake my head. “Why are you doing this?”
“I’m giving you what you want.”
“It’s not what I want!” I counter.
“What do you want?”
You.
But the word gets stuck in my throat.
“You told me before that people outside of Hollywood wouldn’t understand,” he says, and I nod. “You were right. Because if you were mine—really mine—I’d beg you not to go to Ireland. Not with him. I’d fall to my knees and plead with you to love me as much as I love you. To pick me.”
“Garrett.” I close my eyes while a wave of anguish hits me with each of his words.
If I were really his.
But I’m not. This whole marriage has been fake from the get-go. Soft lips trace the curve of my jaw to settle on my cheek.
“Goodbye, Mia.”
