“He’s not my problem anymore. He really never was. This was all . . . temporary. You knew that.”
“Whose problem is he?” she whispered.
“His family has been notified and advised.”
“Of what?”
“His mental condition. He’s being taken to an institution as we speak. He’ll continue to be monitored. Watched. He won’t be getting out anytime soon.” He shrugged and reached for his hat.
“I see,” Dani whispered. He could see that she did.
“You’re not coming back?” she asked, but it wasn’t really a question.
“No.” His heart had begun to race.
“You will leave. And I will stay. And we will be through,” she said.
“Yes.” He couldn’t breathe. Short, blunt answers were best when one couldn’t breathe.
“Is there nothing about me . . . about us . . . that you would like to keep?”
Leave it to Dani to pose the question that way, to cut to the heart of it all. The parts of himself, all the neat compartments that he kept so cleanly divided, were beginning to touch. They were beginning to hover at the edges of one another, sparking and grinding, and he could not simply walk from room to room, closing doors on one matter to attend to the next.
“I would take you with me if I could. If you could,” he confessed in a rush. It was a suggestion, a cruel one, because she would not leave. But he couldn’t help himself from making it. He would take her with him, everything else be damned. If she said, I’m coming with you, he would let her.
“I can’t leave them,” she said.
“I know. I can’t stay, and you can’t leave,” he said.
“I have responsibilities here. I am not free to go wherever I wish.”
He didn’t lecture her and say, I told you so. It would have been insincere. He had told her. And he’d told himself, and they had still done what people do. They’d become attached to one another.
“Do you think someday we might be . . . together again?” she asked.
“You will find someone else.”
“No. I won’t.” She shook her head once, vehement. “And I wish you wouldn’t say such things. It makes me feel as though you don’t know me at all.”
“I know you, Dani. And you know me. No pretense, remember? You have become . . . dear . . . to me. You will always be dear to me.” It was true. But it was weak. Limp. And only a fraction of the truth.
“So we will part as friends, then?” she asked. “Is that what you want?”
“You are not just my friend,” he confessed.
“No?” Her voice was faint.
“No. I’m in love with you. So you aren’t just . . . my friend.” And he was a bastard for admitting it. Love confessed and then denied was not a gift.
“You are in love with me. And I am in love with you. But you’re still going to go?”
“Yes.” A bastard.
Her gaze was steady, but her blue eye was brighter, her dark eye deeper, and he could see her fighting for her composure.
“I’ve made my choices, Dani. I don’t live a life that I can share. I knew, going into this job fifteen years ago, that there would be no room for anything or anyone else. I chose that. It is what I wanted.”
“But . . . is it what you want?” she challenged, her voice bleak.
He reached for her then, needing one last embrace, one last kiss. He would pay attention to every detail. He would catalog it. Make a list so he wouldn’t forget. But she stepped away. She bristled, like she couldn’t bear his touch. His hand fell, and her eyes followed, clinging to the floor.
“You say you know me, and I’m not sure you do. But I do know you,” Dani insisted, her voice shaking. “I know every line of your face and wish in your heart. I know you. And you will go, and you will never come back. You will convince yourself that I am foolish and that you are undeserving. You will continue in the way you have done, and you will die alone. We will both die alone.”
“Don’t say that, Dani,” he said, aghast.
She pressed her palms to her eyes and breathed deeply, fighting, struggling, winning. She dropped her hands, straightened her back, and met his gaze again.
“Forgive me,” she murmured.
His heart ached and his spirit howled, but he picked up his hat and put it on his head. It was time to go.
“I will call if that’s . . . all right,” he said. “To see how you are. Maybe I could . . . send a letter, now and again. But only if you want me to.”