At the time, I thought she was right. Now that I’m nearing his place, I’m starting to think maybe she was wrong.
“I don’t feel pretty. He’s going to think I look like a mess.”
“You look freaking amazing, and who cares if you do look like a mess? If he loves you, he’ll think you look beautiful no matter how tear-streaked your cheeks are.”
“I should’ve dressed up. I should’ve done my makeup.”
“You couldn’t stop crying long enough to do your makeup. Remember? We tried, it just smeared down your face.”
“This was a mistake, Kelsey. I really don’t think I should do this. I’m not ready.”
“I’m not sure if you will ever be ready, Lottie.”
“I feel broken inside,” I say softly. “I don’t think I’ve ever felt like this before. When Angela fired me, I thought that was rock bottom, but that feeling is nothing compared to this. I thought we had something, and then he just ripped that away from me.” I suck in a deep breath as a lone tear falls down my cheek. “I’m not sure how to wash away that feeling.”
“And the emotions you’re experiencing, they’re all valid,” Kelsey says. “But, Lottie, there’s a reason he wants you to come over tonight, why he stopped by this morning. He knows he messed up. We all make mistakes—granted, his might have been larger than most—but he’s trying to make it right. If you truly love him, you will give him a chance to do that. That’s what love is, isn’t it? I mean, haven’t you and I had to forgive each other for jumping down each other’s throats without considering the truth?”
More tears stream down my face as I take in the familiar gate that protects Huxley’s house. She isn’t wrong. God, I’d hurt Kelsey only weeks ago with my stupid mouth, talking without thinking, and . . . and she forgave me. I take a deep breath as the driver presses a button and the gate slides open. No turning back. As we drive through, I see Huxley standing outside his door, on his porch, waiting for me.
“Oh God, I see him. Kelsey, I can’t do this. I can’t. I’m a mess.”
“Then be a mess in front of him. I love you, sis. You have a beautiful heart. Share it with him.” And then she hangs up just as the driver puts the car in park.
I wipe frantically at my tears, but unfortunately, they keep falling, even as Huxley steps up to the car and opens the door. When he catches sight of me, I see the devastation that passes through his eyes before he offers his hand to me.
Not ready to hold his hand, I get out of the car without his help.
He doesn’t say anything, but I see the disappointment in his shoulders from my denial.
Clearing his throat, he says, “Thanks for coming over.”
I wipe at my face and just nod, my throat tight, so choked up that squeezing out a word right now feels next to impossible.
Raw, tumultuous emotions beat through me, and from the sight of him in a pair of simple jeans and a T-shirt, his hair ruffled from his hand running through it, those emotions skyrocket, sending me into a tailspin of uncertainty.
Should I be here?
Should I give him a second chance?
If I feel this awful from one bout of heartbreak, what could he possibly do to me in the future?
And why exactly am I suffering from such intense emotions?
Probably because Kelsey is right. I love him so much, more than I thought. My heart is drawn toward him. My heart aches for him. But my heart is also wary. He’s playing tug-of-war with my heart, ripping and tearing it in every direction, stirring up anxiety and uncertainty.
“Do you mind if we go inside?” he asks. When I shake my head, he gestures toward the door, and when I step in front of him, he places his hand on my lower back. It feels like a bolt of lightning to my spine, forcing it to straighten, go stiff. He notices quickly and removes his hand, probably interpreting it as me not wanting his touch. But my reaction wasn’t because I didn’t want the touch, it was because I didn’t realize how much I’d missed it . . .
He opens the door for me, and when I walk through, he says, “I have everything set up in the dining room.”
Everything set up? What does that mean?
What exactly did he have to set up?
Anxious and nervous, I walk toward the dining room, where I see the table set for two. Two large cloche serving dishes, two glasses filled with water, and a manila folder with two pens have been laid on the table. The lights are dimmed, Fleetwood Mac plays in the background, and there doesn’t seem to be a soul in the house other than me and Huxley.