“Pike, you’ll be miserable.”
“Better to be miserable than risk what we’ve worked so hard at building.” I’m silent for a moment and then add, “He won’t quit. You know he won’t. If it’s not this, it’s going to be something else. I didn’t do what he wanted, and because of that, he’s bound to make my life a living hell.”
“Pike, listen to me. It’s a hiccup, okay? You can still fix things with Cora.”
I shake my head even though he can’t see me. It’s wishful thinking on his end, but he’s not here, he doesn’t see the way Cora distances herself, even when I think I’m getting close. He doesn’t see her strong reluctance. I’d like to believe that maybe there’s a chance, but after yesterday, I’m 100% certain she’ll never give in.
“I can’t, and I have to go. I’ll talk to you later.”
“Pike, wait—”
I hang up and lean back on the bench. I press my hands into my eyebrows, attempting to massage the headache away.
Fuck.
For a second there, I thought there was a chance of making this marriage an actual reality, but I meant what I said. There’s no way she’s going to give in.
Ever.
Not after the swimsuit prank. We had a good few days, and if she was going to pull back, that would’ve been the time. But she didn’t.
Which means . . . there’s only one thing left for me to do.
End it.
Carryout bag in hand, I take a deep breath and then unlock the door to the apartment. The lights are off and the apartment is completely sheathed in darkness.
I spent the last few hours walking around the city, looking for a place that serves take-away Thanksgiving dinners. After waiting in line for over an hour and a half at a diner fifteen blocks away, I got dinner. Figured I could at least offer her dinner before taking off.
I set the food on the counter and flip on the light in the kitchen, catching sight of Cora lying in bed, covers pulled up to her neck.
When her eyes meet mine, I see a single tear fall into the fabric of the already wet pillowcase.
Fuck.
That single tear cuts through me, deep. I wish it didn’t. I wish I could stop caring about her, but the heart doesn’t work like that.
“Hey,” I say somberly.
She wipes at her eyes. “You came back.”
“Did you think I wouldn’t?” I ask, sticking my hands in my pockets, unsure of what to do. I know what I need to say to her, but my body is aching to go to her, to make sure she’s okay, to reassure her that I’m here.
She nods. “I thought you went back to your place.”
“Nah, just took forever to find a turkey dinner.” I scratch the back of my neck. It’s now or never. Just end it and be done with this mess. “Listen, Cora,” I start.
She sits up, the covers falling from her shoulders and to her lap, and slowly, her shirt comes into view. It feels like a ton of bricks hitting me all at once.
Sitting on the bed, tears streaming down her face, she’s wearing my Save the Queen shirt.
My shirt.
I’m . . . fuck . . . I’m gutted.
She doesn’t need to say anything, because it’s written all over her face, in her actions.
She’s giving me a chance.
Hell . . . she’s giving us a chance.
Her lip trembles as she rises from the bed. She stands there tentatively for a second, her hands twisting in front of her. The hem of my shirt reaches midthigh and swallows her shoulders, making her look much smaller than she is.
After a few breaths, she takes a step forward.
And then another.
And another, until she has closed the space between us.
Tears still stream down her face as her hand goes to my chest, then slowly up my neck, and to the gash on my face. She gently strokes it, her thumb hot on my already heated skin, and then another wave of tears trickles down her cheek.
“I’m—I’m so sorry,” she says, her lip trembling some more.
Call me a masochist.
Call me a bloody nob-head.
But I can’t let her cry like this.
I can’t pass up the meaning behind the shirt.
And I can’t walk away from her without knowing what her lips taste like.
I cup her cheek, placing my thumb under her chin so I can better angle her mouth.
From the first time I saw her at the teachers’ barbeque at the beginning of the school year, I was curious what her lips tasted like. Curious about what she’d be like in bed. But I kept my distance, because I wasn’t here to find someone, I was here to find myself. Find my passion. Forest Heights was one of five schools I interviewed with. Principal Dewitt gave me a chance, and I wasn’t going to screw that up.