Happy Place(82)

I break into sobs again as the reality of it hits me. That all that time and energy I’d spent trying to be fine for him, to not crack under the weight of my job, to not need anything he couldn’t give—all it had done was drive him away from me faster.

“I knew you’d never leave me,” he goes on, his voice like sandpaper. “Not when I was such a fucking wreck. But I didn’t want to trap you. I didn’t want you to wake up one day and realize you were living the wrong life, and I’d let you do it.

“That’s why the phone call was so short. Because I couldn’t have time to change my mind. That’s why I mailed your stuff back so fast. Why I couldn’t stand to have a single piece of you left where I could see it.

“Because I’m always going to love you. Because more than anything, I want you to be happy. And now you are,” he says. “And I am too. Not all the time, but I’m so much better than I was, and when Sabrina called and asked me to come here, I thought I could handle it.

“I genuinely thought I would show up, and I’d see you, and I’d know you were happier. I’d know I did the right thing letting you go.

“I’ve worked so fucking hard on myself these last five months, Harriet, and I’m doing well. I’m with my family, and I’m doing work I’m proud of, and I’m on medicine.”

“Medicine?”

“You asked what changed my mind about the job earlier,” he says. “That’s what did it. Medicine. For depression.”

My throat squeezes. Just one more huge thing I didn’t know about him. “From losing your dad?”

He shakes his head. “I thought it was just that. But once I started taking it, I realized that had just made things worse. But it’s always been there. Making everything harder than it should be. It’s like . . .” He scratches his temple. “In high school, I had this friend on the soccer team. And one day, after a game, he collapsed. His chest hurt and he couldn’t get his shirt off, but he wanted to because he couldn’t breathe, and we all thought he was having a heart attack. Turned out it was asthma.

“Spent like seventeen years operating on fifty-five percent lung capacity without realizing breathing just wasn’t supposed to be that hard. Starting antidepressants was like that for me. I felt like shit all the time, and then suddenly I didn’t. And all this stuff seemed possible for the first time. My mind felt . . . quieter, maybe. Lighter.”

I dash away the tears pricking my eyes. “I had no idea,” I croak.

“I didn’t either,” he says. “I spent a lot of energy trying to be fine, and—the point is, things are finally good for me. And I thought if I came here and saw you, it would prove we were both exactly where we were supposed to be. And instead, I showed up and you were furious at me. And you know what I felt?”

“I know you’re angry with me too, Wyn,” I force out.

He gives a sharp shake of his head. “Relief. I felt relief. Because it finally felt like you cared. If you were mad at me, it meant your heart really was as fucking broken as mine is. I thought when I found a way to be happy, I’d think about you less. But instead, it’s like . . . like now that the grief isn’t strangling me, there’s all this extra room to love you.

“But we can’t go back, so I don’t know what to do with any of this. I don’t even know if you feel the same way, and it’s killing me too. I go back and forth every thirty seconds thinking I’m hurting you just by being here, and then thinking you couldn’t possibly still love me after all this time, and even if it’s not real, a part of me wants to pretend I have you, but another part thinks I’ll die if you don’t tell me you love me, even if it doesn’t change anything. Even if it’s just getting to hear it one more time.

“Everything’s different and nothing’s changed, Harriet,” he says. “I tried so fucking hard to let you go, to let you be happy, and when I see you, I still feel like—like you’re mine. Like I’m yours. I got rid of every single piece of you, like that would make a difference, like I could cut you out of me, and instead, I just see everywhere you’re supposed to be.”

I stare at him, heart cracking open under the weight of what I’m feeling.

“Please say something,” he whispers.

My eyes fill. My throat fills. I drop my face into my hands again. “I thought you didn’t want me,” I choke out, “so I tried. I tried to love somebody else. I tried to even like somebody else. I kissed someone else. I slept with someone else, but I couldn’t stop feeling like I was yours.” My eyes tighten against another wave of tears. “Like you’re mine.”

“Harriet.” He tilts my face up. “Look at me.”

He waits. “Please, Harriet.”

It takes a few seconds to force my eyes open. Water droplets still cling to his brows. Rivulets race down his jaw and throat. His thumb grazes my cheekbone.

“I am,” he says. “I am still yours.”

The nail that has been driving closer and closer to my heart all week sinks home.

The pads of his fingers slide across my bottom lip. His eyes are so soft, every ginger touch pushing back another layer from my heart.

But does it even matter that we belong to each other when we can’t be with each other? Our lives are immovably separate. Everything may look different than it did ten minutes ago, but nothing’s changed. He’s mine, but I can’t have him.