I see it then, she loves me, and I know she can see what I feel for her in the place we just created, a place where nothing else can reach us.
An unescapable truth occurs to me as we stare at each other, chests bouncing—I have not truly lived until this moment, being in love, with her.
That conviction was burned into me every single day we spent together after. Even the days we fought, days where my chest ached so fucking badly, I was only reminded of just how much she meant to me.
It was Whitney’s absence that scarred me more than any other when we fell apart. I lost that warmth the second I let her go, and I’ve missed it since.
The kicker? I was to blame for all of it. Our beginning, my pursuit of her, our shaky middle, and untimely, fucked-up end. For not being able to get my shit together in time to embrace it, fully embrace her.
Stalking out to the yard, I curse my stupidity for thinking this would go any other way than with my rejection. That I was more than capable of seeing her—maybe reminiscing—and offering her my apology and explanation. The sheer stupidity that I have outlived the relationship that stole a large piece of my soul and kickstarted my life.
I might have convinced myself I came out of selfish curiosity to deliver an overdue apology, but that’s no longer the case at all. I find myself in the same position I was in the second I let her go—filled with longing and soul-crushing regret.
The more I spend time here, observing her with her family, discovering the extent of what I gave up—gave away—the more I know it wasn’t just curiosity that brought me here. It was justification for the real truth.
I still want her.
It’s as complicated and as simple as this—after nearly a lifetime apart, I don’t just want her. I want her back.
Deep down, somehow, I knew I would still feel for her no matter who she became. But to feel it to this extent?
Clearly, I’m alone in it. Whatever lingering feelings or attraction she may have for me at this point, it’s not enough, not for her.
Even so, I came intent on telling her the truth, which I will. But the foolish notion my head and heart decided on the minute I saw her mere days ago is just that—foolish. She’s rejected our past, and me, repeatedly. A clear indication that a future would be laughably dismissed as well.
It’s just too late.
Way too fucking late.
Disappointment cloaks me as I soak in the reality over the hopeful fiction I’ve been penning in my heart since we pulled up.
I hadn’t fully realized just how much I’ve been holding onto the idea of us all these years, and now that I know, I have to let it go, let her go.
I wake at dawn and quickly bundle up in my robe while sliding into my elf slippers, a distinct chill in the air due to the absence of the fire. Once downstairs, I see I missed the start of Eli and Peyton’s morning date as Peyton sips milk, nestled in Eli’s lap in one of the recliners, the Lion King playing in the background on the big screen. Peyton graces me with an adorable flash of a smile while his teeth remain locked around the top of the cup.
“Morning, baby,” I grin back. “Eli make you berry milk?”
“Mep,” Peyton nods, his eyes flitting back to Simba as he sings “Hakuna Matata.” Eli studies me briefly before darting his gaze away, his voice raspy as he speaks. “How did you sleep?”
“Really well, you?” I ask, gathering some of the wood next to the fireplace.
“Far from well,” he says without a trace of humor. “I was going to start one. I just wanted to let him drink his milk first.”
“It’s fine. I’ve got a few fire-starting skills.”
I feel his gaze on my profile as I position the wood around a starter log.
“Whitney,” the timbre in his voice is arresting, and I glance over at him. “I’m sorry for last night. The way I acted was unforgivable.”
I can’t help my light laugh. “It’s okay. I knew you were out of your mind drunk. To be fair, it was pretty entertaining.” I shake my head. “You know, it’s kind of funny. You’ve apologized more in the last few days than you did when we were together.”
“Yeah, well, I don’t plan on giving myself anymore of a reason to.”
When I glance back at him, his eyes are on the screen, his fingers absently running through Peyton’s fire-tinged hair. Ancient but familiar dread seeps into me as I decipher his expression.
Closed.
Ache fills my chest at the sight of it as a memory shudders in.
“Please come with me,” I plead. “We can take advantage of the long weekend, and you need to get out of here. You’ve been holed up in this house all week.”