"You have to stop saying I tried to drown you. Your sleeve was damp. There's a significant difference between a few splashes and holding your overinflated head under the water for a prolonged period of time."
"And this?" he asked. "This isn't fun for you? Not even a little?" When I didn't respond, he went on, "Because I think it is, Sara. You just don't want to recognize it. You're so much fun to fight with. You get all worked up and you're so damn gorgeous when you're furious for no reason, and because you like it too. Admit it, for once, that you love battling me. That you can push and push and push, and the only thing I'm ever going to do is pull your hair and fuck you harder."
"Even if a fraction of that is correct—and I'm not saying it is—don't you think I get tired of that?" I asked, still louder than anyone should be speaking on a beach in Jamaica at sunrise. "Don't you think I want some nice, simple interactions that don't involve screaming or beating the shit out of each other at jousting?"
He brought his hands to my shoulders, up my neck. "No. I think you want to be loud. I think you want to be as wild and prickly and sweet as you know you truly are, and I think you want someone who sees that mess and wants more of it. Who wants all of it."
I needed a minute to think. That was it, just a minute to think. And breathe. And also get the hell out of this conversation and into a place where this man wasn't crawling inside my head, scooping up my thoughts, and forcing me to look them in the eye. "I haven't packed," I said. "I should do that. Now. Soon. I mean, I have to go soon and I should pack now."
"Sara." My name was a sigh.
"If you want to continue talking to me, you can do it while I pack," I said, storming up the beach.
It took me all of a minute to reach the bungalow and another minute to drag my bags from the closet and start shoving my things inside. If I knew anything about folding clothes or organizing garments, it didn't show. No, this was fully slapdash and that was the goal. I was doing exactly what I intended and no one was going to tell me otherwise. I knew myself and I was certain, so fucking certain, of all the things. I had it all right here in my contradictory little pocket. I wasn't trying to reorient my entire world while also gathering my things for international travel.
It took several more minutes for Sebastian to appear in the doorway, his hair tousled like he'd run his fingers through it a million times. He tipped his head to the side, silent a moment as he watched me fill the suitcase.
"No one," he started, then thought better about it and pressed his fist to his mouth.
"I just need some time to think. That's all," I said. He stared at me in a way that confirmed he knew my words were little more than bandages over bullet wounds. He saw me and he wanted me, and I couldn't even begin to consider that until I processed the possibility that we weren't a toxic mistake. Of course we were a toxic mistake! But what if we weren't? What if… No, I couldn't go there. Not yet. "You have to know I'm not good at this. At being with people. That has to be obvious to you and—"
"No one will ever love you the way I do," he said.
I dropped the things I was holding. My hairbrush slid off the bed, onto the floor. One sandal landed in the suitcase. I wasn't sure where the other one ended up. "What?"
"You own every valve and chamber of my heart yet you could leave here tonight and meet someone who will give you everything you need, everything you've ever wanted. And I'd be happy for you too. Do you get that?" He sounded irritable, like I was intentionally missing the point. "I'd be happy for you, even if you weren't with me. You could walk away from me now and take"—he slapped a hand to his chest—"everything I have to give and keep it with you as proof that you are deserving of all the love I have to offer. But you need to understand something, Sara. That person who will love every weird and stubborn side of you? They won't know the first thing about fighting with you all the way down the Charles River while you do your damnedest to drown them, and they won't know how ruthless and relentless you are when it comes to winning at team-building exercises. They won't know the absolute pleasure of dying by your hand in bubble suit jousting and knowing that is the best and only way to leave this world. They won't know anything about arguing with you while trying to get under your clothes in a foyer and they won't know when to remind you of the right way to breathe and they won't know that no one will ever love me the way you do. Before you start screeching at me about—"
"I do not screech."
"—how you've never said that you love me, let me tell you that I don't give a fuck about the words. I don't need them, Sara. I don't. You've spent these past few days with me and given me everything of yours to hold safe. You let me block and tackle your father. Even before this week, you let me doctor you at Acevedo's house and tuck you in before I left your sweet little demonic face in bed. I don't need the words. I already know what I need to know. I just need you to choose me."
I wasn't sure when I started crying, but there were tears streaming down my face and they weren't stopping. "Sebastian…"
"Don't say anything. Okay? Just don't say anything right now. Go home and think about—about all of this. You want time? Take all the time you need. You know where to find me. But don't find me until you've realized you are ready to choose."
For a second, neither of us moved. We didn't even blink.
Then Sebastian crossed the room and came to my side, his arms wrapping around me at once. He pressed his lips to my temple. "I don't want to be alone with anyone but you. Understand?"
I gave a watery sniff and nodded. "Yeah."
He gave me a bone-crunching squeeze and another kiss before stepping back. I pressed my palms to my eyes because this was not what I wanted from our last day together.
When I blinked at the room, I was alone.
Chapter 29
Sebastian
I spent the rest of the week sitting on the beach, wishing Sara was with me. I wasn't sure if it was an exact match but this seemed a lot like going on a honeymoon alone. Hollow, empty, questioning every one of my life choices. It was close enough.
I reread the entire Chronicles of Narnia series because what the fuck else was I going to do? I parked my ass on that beach, read books I didn't actually like, and kept up an argument with myself as to whether I'd made a colossal error in dumping all that information on Sara while she was already freaking out.
If I was smart—and we all knew I wasn't—I would've said nothing. Not a goddamn word. What I could've done was accept that she wasn't ready for me to jump in and take possession of the next fifty years of her life. It wasn't like I had to tell her I loved her and no one else would ever be able to give her what I would. I could've shut my fucking mouth. I could've done that. I could've continued being her enemy with benefits, the guy she fucked whenever she was in the mood to stop holding everything in. I could've been that guy for her. The one who gave her the space to be free and knew how to watch while friends fixed her up with the right guys.