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I drag my eyes away from his balled-up fists. “You’re about ten years too late for that conversation, don’t you think?”
“Clearly this is a big mistake.”
“Wouldn’t be the first time you said that.”
He opens his mouth, only to slam it shut.
Truth is, I can give Julian a hundred different chances to explain his choice to push me away, but it won’t change the truth he made painfully obvious.
He didn’t want me.
A bitter laugh claws its way up my throat. “It’s fine.”
“I never meant to hurt you.” He exposes my insecurities with a single sentence.
Háblame:Talk to me.
“You didn’t,” I lie.
“What I did…” He loses his voice, along with whatever nerve he had found in the first place.
Good. I prefer it that way.
“Things happen the way they’re meant to,” I say.
He folds and unfolds the newspaper, only to refold it again. “I never expected you to go into design too.”
He would have if he had given me a chance to explain my hopes and fears instead of assuming he knew what was best for me by pushing me to stay at Stanford to finish a political science degree I never wanted.
I was always interested in design—that much became obvious when my parents were remodeling our house and relied on me to choose most of the finishes and furniture—but I never vocalized it since they were set on me getting some kind of professional degree.
“I took a class or two before you left.” Plus, I joined a club and got a mentor from the interior design program because I wanted to learn more without switching majors.
His brows rise. “I had no idea.”
“Nobody did.” I spent the better part of my life swearing I would become a badass lawyer, in part because my parents wanted me to have a stable, well-paying job, so the last thing I wanted to do was disappoint them by blowing a full ride to Stanford on a career that wasn’t guaranteed to be successful.
Fans think mypolitical science major–turned–interior designerstory is endearing, but it really represents my lifetime strugglewith the fear of failing.
He stays quiet while he seems to work through the mental puzzle of our memories. “When you made the offer to come and work with me at the company…”
“No need to dredge up the past. It’s not like we can go back and change anything.”
“Sometimes, I wish I could.”
Breathing becomes a laborious task with how much my lungs ache.
He breaks eye contact. “I always regretted how I went about things with us. I didn’t—” His reply is cut off by Beth popping out from behind a bookcase.
“Library is closing, kids! You’ll have to wrap this up and come back tomorrow because I’ve got a date with a pint of ice cream that can’t be postponed.”
“Thanks, Beth.” I ignore Julian’s pinched expression as I hand her the keys and head back to the filing cabinet with the newspaper.
Julian doesn’t say anything else. Not when we climb into his truck. Not during the drive back to my house, and certainly not before I escape inside with a small shred of dignity intact.
I slipped up earlier. Being around Julian again after all this time is like opening up an old wound, and instead of remaining level-headed, I let my emotions get the best of me.
Despite my efforts to forget the conversation we had, I’m stuck replaying the whole exchange after I crawl into bed for the night.
